The Dark Horizon
by qqueenofhades
Summary: AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious "pirates' republic" of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they're getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails, COMPLETE.
1. I

**Notes:** You don't need to have watched Black Sails to read this fic, although those characters will make appearances in supporting roles; it also won't strictly follow the story of the show. I'm rating this one M at the outset, for reasons which are probably obvious, and there will also be violence, foul language, and etc., so you have been duly warned. Captain Swan/Jewel Queen, Killian & Liam BROTP, Miranda/Flint.

* * *

 **-I-**

A great wall of dark blue cloud lay across the horizon as far as the eye could see, lit underneath with spurs of rose and gold, as if it was a gateway that would roll aside to reveal the path to paradise. The sea was as still as glass and the air nearly so, as yet retaining the lingering coolness of the night that would quickly turn into a tropical inferno. It was June, they having shipped out in April as soon as the spring weather turned favorable for the six-week Atlantic crossing, and if nothing else, Killian Jones had had a formidable respect for the Caribbean sun, and the Caribbean weather in general, quite literally beaten into him. It was perfect and calm now; in an hour there might be a tempest fit to wreck them; an hour more, and doldrums. They had been helped by the westerly trade winds in making their crossing ahead of schedule, due to arrive on the fifteenth of June and it being presently the thirteenth, but not without a hair-raising adventure or two. Thus, as opportune as things looked now for a triumphal landing, he'd just as soon wager on a torrential downpour right when they were trying to get the Governor off the ship. And that, knowing the Governor, would get them bloody blamed for it. No sailor and no man could control the weather, but damn if Lord Robert Gold didn't think they should.

"Bosun reckons the depth at thirty fathoms," the helmsman said, startling him. "Fifteen miles offshore. Assuming a fair day and a bit of wind, we'll be at St. John's by noontime, sir."

"Thank you, Roberts." Killian turned away from the railing, nodding for the man to retire. He couldn't stop himself from conducting one last inspection from bowsprit to stern chasers, just to be sure every line, shroud, spar, block, and beam was punctiliously in place and scrubbed to within an inch of its life. He couldn't wait until this bloody voyage was over. Being elected to transport the new Governor of the Leeward Islands to the Royal Navy's Caribbean base and home port in Antigua might look like an honor, but Killian was well aware of why they had been selected for the task. The previous governor had been murdered by rebel colonists less than five years ago, the provincial administration was run by corrupt embezzlers out to line their own pockets and barely able to defend from the constant French attempts to steal the islands back, piracy was running rampant from New Providence Island to the north, they had been at declared or undeclared war with Spain for most of the century and the peace was fragile, the exiled Catholic Stuarts were trying a rebellion against the newly crowned Elector of Hanover back in England, and the whole future of newly-minted Great Britain's lucrative interests in the West Indies, if not possibly Great Britain itself, was at stake. Lord Robert Gold was exactly the sort of man, in Westminster's thinking, to get a very firm grip on the situation, and it started at home. The Admiralty had suspected for a while that the HMS _Imperator_ was failing to enforce proper codes of conduct and respect for the law, and if Gold detected any hint of laxity, he would trip over himself to file a damning report. Which would result in one, or both, of them being removed from the ship in disgrace to face court-martial and prison. Or worse.

Killian's mouth tightened. Liam had warned the men in private, before they took Gold aboard, that they would have to do everything by the book on this voyage. The Jones brothers had sailed together for almost eight years now, captain and lieutenant, preferring to build the respect and trust of their crew through firm but fair treatment, no gratuitous floggings or deprivation of rations or other arbitrary punishments, and in general regarding them as _men,_ free men, and not impressed slaves to whom death was the only sure exit from His Protestant Majesty's Royal Navy. This, however, sniffed very nearly to heresy among certain segments of the Admiralty Board, and combined with the trouble the brothers had gotten into last year by refusing to defend slave ships in the Middle Passage, meant anything that looked like basic human decency or morale among the troops would be regarded very narrowly indeed. Gold was doubtless praying for a man to steal an extra biscuit, or try to shirk his watch, or any other minute infraction, that would then require a flogging to be administered. Could tell if the officers were comfortable doing it, what effect it had on the watching men, even if the culprit had old scars on his back from a previous offense. And if he didn't see exactly what he wanted, would include that in his report as well.

 _Bloody hell._ Killian checked that the capstan was properly braced and locked, which it was, just as it had been the previous half-dozen times he looked. Thus far they had managed to get away with it, as the crew knew that any minor slipup would have to be punished with disproportionate harshness, and as much as a man might claim that he understood the need on an intellectual level, that could still change when you felt the cat o' nine tails' burning kiss on your back. Killian winced just at the memory, and he had never even taken as many floggings as he should have. Not when Liam kept finding ways to lie that it had been his fault.

He glanced back at the horizon. The clouds were breaking up, a spill of fresh daylight tumbling down to paint a rich golden road on the sea, beckoning them to El Dorado. Morning bell would be sounding soon, the crew up for muster, instructed to put on their least filthy shirt and cravat so Gold would not have to be brought ashore by a gang of apparent vagabonds. Six weeks at sea did not leave a man much fresh cloth, which meant more work to scrub them with lye and seawater, which meant another test to see how well they passed. But at least it was almost done. Get the bastard to St. John's, pack him off to his mansion, and then they could rest, refit, perhaps enjoy a fortnight on the island before they were given their new orders. They'd be here for the foreseeable future, assigned as part of the West Indies fleet to combat the pirate menace, and if they could just catch one of the big fish rumored to thieve these waters – Charles Vane, James Flint, Benjamin Hornigold – all would be forgiven. Floggings or no floggings.

Having concluded his inspection of the ship and decided there was nothing more to be done to satisfy even him, Killian turned away, crossed the deck, and let himself into the stern cabin, with a quick rap to announce his entrance. "Good morning, Captain," he said. "All in order, sir."

"At ease, Lieutenant." Liam Jones glanced up from the pile of charts he was consulting, cravat undone, sleeves rolled up, and face unshaven, though the bowl and cutthroat razor balanced precariously atop the books suggested he had been attempting to proceed in that direction before getting distracted. The stress of the voyage was apparent on him too, as his eyes were framed in dark circles and his normally robust, broad-shouldered frame looked gaunt, coat hanging more loosely than usual. Killian knew that Liam had barely slept a wink for all of these six weeks ensuring the ship ran perfectly, and worrying about what he would have to do if it didn't. Gold kept popping up at odd hours, when any other well-bred gentleman should have been abed, as if trying to catch them in a mistake or plotting to throw their lot in with the Jacobites. As if they would be remotely that stupid. Nobody much liked George of Hanover, who barely spoke a word of English, had proved in no hurry to uproot to London, and in general seemed to view the exalted and momentous task of ruling Great Britain with all the enthusiasm of a man handed a dead snail, but as the alternative was Popish tyranny, all loyal Englishmen had fallen into line regardless. And since Liam and Killian had been born in Ireland and baptized Catholic, they lived in fear of some disgruntled enemy digging up the old parish registers and using it as proof of their duplicity. Gold had already been asking enough seemingly casual questions about their origins to make them think it had crossed his mind to go looking.

Seeing that they were alone, Killian turned to his brother, smiling comfortingly. "It's almost over, Li. Weather looks fine and fair, Roberts says we should make landfall by midday. Then we can get Gold off the ship and breathe out for once, aye?"

Liam shot a shifty look at the door, as if expecting the governor to be lurking on the other side with his ear pressed to it; even that fairly innocuous sentence was the most freely they had dared to speak since embarking. Then he ran his hands through his disheveled curls and groaned. "I'd best get freshened up in that case. No use having the crew scrubbed and clean if their captain looks a ragamuffin. Hand me the strop."

Killian took the leather band off its nail and tossed it to his brother, as Liam straightened the razor, made his way over to the lime-glass mirror, and spread the suds onto his face, squinting in concentration as he barbered himself back into respectability. Then he splashed a bit of water onto his cheeks and wiped them clean, plucking a whalebone comb out of the top drawer and doing battle with his salt-whipped hair, drawing it back into a tidy queue and doing up the ribbon. "Well," he said, taking a deep breath. "How do I look?"

"They might not mistake you for the gunner's mate," Killian teased, retrieving the captain's coat, heavy dark blue wool lined with white and trimmed in gold, and holding it out for Liam to shrug on. He fished a fresh cravat from the trunk and handed it over as well, which Liam did up, tugged nervously straight, and finally seemed to pronounce respectable. He took his hat from the peg and put it on, doing up the top button of his white vest, just as the morning bell sounded.

With one last glance to ensure that his brother's own cravat was not crooked, the captain pushed through the door and into the sunlight, Killian on his heels, as the crew appeared from below, still yawning and scratching. They did at least look as if some effort had been made with soap and water, their grubby neckerchiefs damp to show they had _tried_ to wash them. They stood at attention, trying not to fidget, as the main cabin's door opened and Lord Robert Gold made his entrance, immaculate as always in watered silk waistcoat and stylishly cut buckled breeches, overcoat of fine brocade and jabot and sleeves trimmed with French lace. He leaned on his ivory-handled walking stick, eyeing them up and down as if in fastidious final hope of finding something to complain about, and then at last, came to a halt before Liam. "Captain Jones. I present my felicitations to you and your men upon the conduction of a capitally successful voyage. When we come ashore in St. John's and I take up my post, I'll be sure to pass along my recommendation to Whitehall that the _Imperator_ and her captain are fully fit for future duties, and to be entrusted with all the business of the British Crown."

Liam barely stopped himself from a most undignified reaction, as to say the least this had not been what they were expecting, and Killian felt him tense in anticipation of the stick swiftly following the carrot. It had not escaped either of them that "all the business of the British Crown" certainly included slavery, a massive part of the Caribbean economy considering the vast sugar plantations of Barbados, Jamaica, and Antigua, and that it would be just like Gold to reassign them to slaver-protection duty in the guise of a reward, and also to see if this time they would agree to do it. "My lord," he said at last, warily. "It has been a great honor to bring you to the Leeward Islands. As loyal subjects of King and Country, we of course stand prepared to receive any future orders or postings the Admiralty desires."

"Indeed." Gold smiled faintly. "Your entire crew has proven themselves most capable in the entirety of their endeavors. Even when I came down with that vile case of the grippe a fortnight in, I could not have been in better hands. Mr. Whale, if you please?"

He beckoned for the ship's surgeon, and Killian grabbed Liam's wrist. If there was one man they did _not_ want conversing on a one-to-one basis with the governor, it was Whale. His social status and medical training entitled him to his officer rank, and when he was sober he was in fact a fine physician and valued member of the crew, but therein lay the difficulty. Add to that an overall irreverence and barbed tongue more suitable for one of the muckrakers who drew unflattering cartoons of politicians for the evening broadsheets, as well as a belief that they should be proud of thumbing their noses at the Navy's rules, and you arrived at the reason Killian had insisted that all of Gold's direct care be handled by the far more mild-mannered surgeon's mate, Mr. Hopper. He had already been having enough nightmares over the prospect of the Governor dying in their charge, to the point where his most mistrustful notions couldn't dismiss the fear that Gold had purposefully gone out in the rain and cold to make himself ill. He told himself that this was lunacy, that the man would never put his own health at risk just in search of political points, but he hadn't been able to shake it entirely. And –

"My lord." Whale stepped forward, with an inclination of his head that was perfunctory at best. "I am glad to have been of service. Surely, however, the credit rightfully belongs to my mate."

Hopper shifted and smiled nervously, clearly hoping not to be called upon. Killian's grip on Liam's wrist tightened, until his brother gave him an accusing look and he let go, pretending to pick a fleck of lint from his cuff. Still, though. This was bad. He thought they had successfully disguised any hint of Whale's incendiary reputation from their passenger, and to see Gold so ruthlessly diving for that weak spot made him realize that they might just have a sneak among the crew, someone cozened into spilling secrets in exchange for money, of which Gold (as his name might suggest) had plenty. He wanted to think that nobody would do that, that they were loyal enough to see through Gold's games and agendas, but then, no seaman was a saint. The men had families back home. Mouths to feed. Months and months away, with no certain return. If Gold had persuaded them that he could see a little extra sent their way, promised that it was only for the welfare of the ship and the crew if he knew what was going on, which man might make things difficult for him. . .

"Regardless," the governor said, "you must have devised the program of my care, Mr. Whale. And on a Royal Navy ship of the line, surely it is proper to expect that the surgeon has done so. Do you believe that the _Imperator_ conforms to such standards, Mr. Whale?"

"Yes, my lord."

"What a relief. So if any other dignitary had fallen ill, they also would have been treated by the surgeon's mate, in lieu of yourself. Is that correct?"

A faint flush climbed Whale's neck. There was slightly less courtesy in his tone when he repeated, "Yes, my lord."

"Well then, the _Imperator_ is outstandingly gifted indeed, to have two fully qualified surgeons of the same caliber at her disposal. At a time when the Navy is short a good surgeon for every vessel, which is to say always, it seems rather selfish to waste this bounty in one place. But neither of you would have any reason to request a transfer, would you? Loyal to your crew and captain? Even if you – "

"Does his lordship have a point to make?" Whale interrupted. "He recovered, didn't he?"

"Oh, I did. Marvelously." Gold's eyes glittered. "You will understand the nature of my enquiry as purely academic and impartial, and merely to be certain that protocol has been adhered to. That is the reason for your response, is it not? That this is exactly what would have been done in any similar circumstances? And not, say, that person or person(s) of interest might have wished to keep you from my presence, for fear of. . . incidents?"

"I've got no notion what you're talking about, my lord."

"Pity." The governor sighed. "Well, call it a proprietary concern for my investment, so that I would not be taken short by any embarrassing revelations or scandals after I had already written to London and given the _Imperator_ my full and unconditional blessing. If one such _does_ emerge, you all know where the governor's residence in St. John's is located. Which I would like to see sometime this year, in fact, so shall we get underway?"

Liam, still looking like a man who had crawled into a cave, found it occupied by something large and hairy, and backed out very slowly to avoid waking it, nodded crisply and spun on his heel, shouting orders. The crew hopped to with similarly more-than-usual alacrity; the breeze was freshening as the sun climbed higher, and the sheets caught it with groans and creaks, singing through the lines. There was, in Killian's mind, nothing so beautiful as the moment when stillness became motion, when the sleeping leviathan woke and all its parts and pieces pulled together, when the capstan thumped and rattled as the anchor raised, and they went skimming across the great face of the deep like a child setting a twig boat on the rushing breast of the river. He grinned despite himself, breathing good lungfuls of fresh salt air, thinking that if it wasn't for the miserable sodding heat and constant threat of thirst, hunger, pirates, corrupt bureaucrats, storms, snakes, slaves, slave-masters, disease, death, and Robert bloody Gold, he'd almost want to stay here. An endless horizon to explore beneath a brilliant blue sky, none of the rain and grime and grue of London, palm trees and white sand, adventure and mystery and _freedom_ with Liam at his side, all he had ever truly asked from life and finally, miraculously been given. He was not nearly naïve enough to think that Gold would stop digging, or that his dropping of the subject now meant they had been saved, but letters took a long time to get between Antigua and England. If he wrote his glowing endorsement of them now, no matter how many strings it was certain to come attached with, that gave them plenty of time to score their coup de grace, to take down one of the biggest thorns in the Navy's side, before he had any chance to change his mind. Even he could not shoot them to bits if there was nothing to load his cannon with.

Killian gazed at the distant blue line of land ahead, growing and rising out of the heretofore endless, empty swells of the sea. This was it. Their fortune lay ahead in the Caribbean, and nothing he would lament being rid of behind them. Even with all the trouble and discomfort they had been put to, he was quite sure that he wouldn't change a thing.

* * *

Three and sundry hours later, Killian was of the decided opinion that coming to the Caribbean was the worst decision not only that he had ever made, but that Britain had made in general, and considering its track record, there were a great deal to choose from. They had managed to arrive in St. John's, moor up, and even get Gold down the gangplank without outstanding calamity, met by a full detachment of soldiers from Fort Berkeley, which sat just to the south overlooking the deep-water harbor and Navy dockyard; the new Fort James, intended to protect the capital, was still mostly scaffolding and stone blocks. Doubtless having a new Governor in residence would put the fear of God into them to get it done faster, as Gold was liable to skulk around the building site and criticize the workmanship in between his grueling schedule of getting headfirst up everyone's arses. They marched ashore with drums and fifes and flapping colors; the new flag had been nicknamed the "Union Jack" after the official political merger with Scotland eight years ago. The locals had all turned out to gawk, meaning that the carriage ride through the narrow, twisting streets took an age and a half, and when they finally arrived at the reception in the governor's mansion, they were forced to suffer an introduction to the chief cause of Killian's current indigestion: Captain James Nolan of the British Army, commander of the Fort Berkeley garrison, immaculate in powdered wig, gilded tricorne, dress saber, and smart red coat, who took one look at the windblown, salt-stained, ruddy-faced Jones brothers in their worn Naval blues and said, "Oh, I have heard so _very_ much about you two," in a tone which strongly suggested that, in defiance of all man's natural and proper urges for self-preservation, he secretly desired to be punched very hard and directly in the nose. Possibly repeatedly.

Liam shot a warning look at Killian, whose fists had clenched. A slave girl came up to them with a tray of drinks, and he nodded her off. Then turning back to their interrogator, he said politely, "Captain Liam Jones of the HMS _Imperator_ at your service, my lord. My brother and second-in-command, Lieutenant Killian Jones. We look forward to a most fruitful partnership serving the interests of the Crown together."

"Charmed." Captain Nolan took a glass. "I do hope you're up for the task. Good help is always in such short supply, and as you have potentially gathered, we are facing an entire armada of crises at once. The Caribbean is no place for weaklings or men of excessive. . . shall we say. . . sentiment." His eyes drifted in the direction of the departed slave girl. "You can imagine that I had some reservations about hearing that I had been assigned such unpredictable associates. Men who seem to care more for the tender sensibilities of Negro slaves than for the interests of their own king and country. Unless there's another explanation for that certain incident that you're here to dazzle me with?"

Liam hesitated, clearly cognizant of the danger. "No, my lord," he said at last. "I imagine what you have heard is fairly close to the truth. It was a moment of. . . personal conviction."

"Good lord, you're not _Quakers,_ are you?" Captain Nolan rolled his eyes at the rococo ceiling. "We all know the system is distasteful, but it is a necessary evil for a greater gain. If you start picking and choosing which laws of the British Crown apply to you, Captain Jones, you'll find it is a very dangerous and narrow line to walk. We have enough trouble with the renegades of New Providence Island, even this far south of their usual haunts. Trust me, you don't want to share their fate. The laws on piracy are, I am afraid, quite unyielding."

"I am no pirate." Liam's tone remained polite, but hard as steel. "No traitor either, no matter what you may think of me. But my brother and I passed our youth and part of our young adulthood in slavery ourselves, and as such, we do not wish to enforce the same depravity on fellow men, if it can be at all avoided."

"You have a most peculiar view of the situation, gentlemen." Captain Nolan sipped his drink, which Killian tried not to eye with longing. "Not least in considering Negroes equal to the white man, and furthermore, thinking that you solve the problem by abstaining from it. I desire very greatly not to be shot myself, you see, hence why I am in the habit of shooting the other bastard first. And from the miserable estate of suffering and slavery to a captain in command of a third-rate in the Royal Navy, bringing the new Governor to the islands – that is quite a climb, wouldn't you say? However was such a remarkable leap achieved?"

Liam hesitated again. "Through wanting the best life possible for myself and my brother," he said after a moment, quite firmly. "Which it has given us, and so why we serve. Once more, I vouchsafe that you have absolutely no reason or need to question our loyalty."

"Very well." Captain Nolan smiled. "I'll take your word for it. After all, if an Englishman cannot trust the oath of a fellow Englishman, whatever is this world coming to?"

Liam nodded, and the two captains clasped each other's hands formally. As they moved off through the airy drawing room, doors opened to the veranda on all sides to let cooling sea-breeze in, Killian muttered, "That one is going to be a problem, brother."

"I noticed." Liam's mouth was grim. "Do you suppose we've pressed the flesh sufficiently to defray any suspicion, and that Gold won't write to the Admiralty at once if we leave early? I'd like to get out of this snakepit before they suck us entirely dry."

"I'd think so," Killian said. "But you're the one in charge here, Captain."

"Bugger it," Liam decided, after a quick look around. "We've done our duty and gotten him here safe, and as they're likely to give us only a week in port, if that, before sending us out again, we need to get refitted as soon as possible. Let's find the Governor and make our excuses."

While Killian was not eager for a second confrontation with Gold in the wake of their earlier one, and their recent escape from Captain Nolan, he was at least sensible enough to realize that they could not sneak out the back, with no word exchanged, without starting the very kind of trouble they had gone to such length and labor to avoid. So he waited while Liam tracked down Gold and presumably filled his ear with taradiddle about how they would love to stay and continue celebrating his safe arrival, but they really did have so very much to do and they could not put Britain's interests in jeopardy with half-cocked preparations. At any rate, it must have worked, because Liam re-emerged from the crowd, wedged on his hat, and said, "Let's go."

Killian trailed after him to the front door, where they were bowed out by the slaves and both of them grimaced, heading down the cobbled walk under the swaying palm trees. Menacing grey towers were starting to gather over the sun, promising one of those fierce Caribbean squalls, and as his coat and shirt were sodden to his skin with sweat, running with an unpleasant tickle down his back, Killian pulled his cravat loose with a sigh of relief and glanced at his brother. "Think we have time to take a dip somewhere before that storm hits?"

Liam studied the clouds with a practiced eye. "Wouldn't say so. It'll be on us in half an hour or less. But they don't last long, so perhaps after. In the meantime, let's find Hawkins and see how much exactly it'll cost us to get this bloody tub resupplied."

Killian quickened his pace as they descended out of the gated gubernatorial precincts and into the lively commerce of the port proper. It smelled as rich and earthy and ripe as any other provincial outpost, mud splashing on their boots and merchants beckoning from cramped stalls, painted whores leaning out windows and longshoremen rolling barrels, household servants with baskets on their arms doing their shopping and huge fish hung up under fading calico awnings, as their sellers bartered vigorously with customers and the clink and clatter of pennies and shillings and crowns and groats and guineas provided a sort of dull musical background. Sweating, ink-spattered clerks fiddled with abacuses and quills to work out tallage, redcoats with muskets kept watch over the public square and a few evidently notorious local drunks, and Killian felt some of his lingering ill temper leavening. "So, Li, could you see us staying here? After our posting is done, I mean? It's not as if there's so bloody much back in England."

Liam gave him an odd look. "That decision won't be up to us. The Admiralty will reassign us wherever we're needed."

"Oh. Aye, of course." Killian had almost forgotten about that. This place did that to you, gave you the intoxicating illusion of boundless liberty, far away from the usual rules and regulations. Not, of course, that he could go forgetting it now. Captain Nolan had already made it plain that even in the stupendously unlikely event that Gold forgot to be a massive pain in the hindquarters, he would more than admirably pick up the slack, and some sort of distasteful event was likely about to come their way as a test. But still. He could taste it, that fever in the blood that a man must be stricken with. Freedom. Not just a restricted and restrained version of it, constantly at peril of the Admiralty's displeasure, but more. True. Real.

Killian shook his head and followed Liam back to the docks and aboard ship, where they tracked down the purser, Mr. Hawkins, and went over the lists of supply. As usual, fresh water and grog were the top requirements, possibly not in that order; seamen would suffer manfully without water if need be, but threaten the grog stores and mutiny was on the table. They also needed tar, turpentine, and caulk; canvas, rope, wax, thread, and hemp; a crate of citrus to prevent scurvy; the usual tonnages of foodstuffs, salt, and flour; medicines and bandages; fresh candles and oil; ink and paper to start a new captain's log; powder, shot, ramrods, flints and fuses to keep the _Imperator's_ sixty guns fully supplied in dangerous waters; nails, timber, and new saw-blade for ship's carpenter Mr. Booth; a new cleaver, ladle, and butcher knife for ship's cook Mr. Lucas; and ten bales of blue serge and white muslin to repair torn, soiled, and ruined uniforms. All of this was not going to come cheap, as small, outlying islands like Antigua had to make money off every ship they served, and Liam's brows furrowed as he ran a finger down the page. "Bloody hell, they already made us spend a king's ransom on making sure Gold had his comforts and luxuries for the crossing. How the devil are we supposed to afford all this?"

"I suppose asking Gold to pay back what we had to use on him isn't an option?" Killian suggested. The rainstorm was in full roar above them, slamming on the deck as loudly as hailstones, and he had to raise his voice. "Otherwise, the local merchants have to have a bill of credit with the fort. We could put it on Captain Nolan's account, there's an idea."

Liam gave him a look, at which he was rather miffed; he had felt it an excellent short-term solution. If worse came to worse, they were not at critical level, and could probably make it another month or two before a refit became imperative, but he knew Liam never liked to run that risk. As well, if it was expensive to resupply now at their current needs, buying more would perforce be even more expensive, and even if they applied to London for an expansion of their operating budget, that would naturally take more time than their present supplies would last them. Liam would figure something out, though. He always did.

"Well," Liam said, closing the account book with a thud. "Thank you, Hawkins. I'll work on this. There must be some of it we can do without, I'll have to see what we can cut. I'll inform the crew they're on shore leave for the time being. You're in command until I return."

"Aye, Captain." Hawkins saluted him and moved to put the book away, as Liam and Killian mounted the stairs to the deck and emerged just as the worst of the downpour was passing. The sky was a fresh, clean-washed blue, and there was a delicious wet coolness that took the edge off the worst of the heat. Killian breathed deep, then went to let the men know they were free to depart for the evening. Most of them would make a mad scramble to the tavern and brothel, as sailors getting off a six-week voyage tended to do, and he prayed that Gold didn't have any spies (or at least too many) among the public, poised to deliver tales of debauchery and drunkenness to the governor's waiting ear. If he got on their case about _that,_ which every other ship did without censure, he'd really have to stab the bastard on a dark night and make it look like an accident.

Duties completed, he and Liam made their own exit. Midsize ships of the line such as the _Imperator_ commonly sailed with two or even three lieutenants under the captain, but they had eschewed this, choosing instead to take on the extra work and strain to stay with only each other. Another lieutenant would be a stranger, have his own notions about how the ship should be run, and there was no guarantee that he would support their riskier policy positions (and certainly not that he would not then tell the Admiralty about them). This was, Killian knew, another point of suspicion about them, that they could be counted on to take each other's side first and foremost and that they were almost always of one mind in everything, and that forcing them to take on a second lieutenant might break up some of their too-cozy synergy. But this had progressed no further than muttering, just like everything else, and he did not intend to let anyone come between him and Liam. Captain and Lieutenant Jones did not need a third wheel.

The afternoon was late and the sun was long and low as they made their way to the postern gate of the city wall. Outside, a narrow track led down to a sheltered inlet, lush with greenery and surrounded by tall rocks, and the light gleamed on a crystal-clear pool beneath a small waterfall. They glanced at each other, as usual had the same idea, and in an instant, the staid, proper officers of the Royal Navy turned into shrieking banshees as they ripped off their clothes, raced to the edge, and cannonballed in, splashing and bellowing. Liam dunked Killian thoroughly, not letting him up until he was spitting and red in the face, and they chased each other around the pool with fistfuls of slimy weed, ducking behind the rocks and springing out to launch deadly ambushes. It was fresh water, not salt, and Killian lapped down several sweet sips, loosening the ribbon from his hair and letting some of the accumulated filth of two months soak off him. From here, they had a stunning vantage of the red-gold sunset, the wind blowing away from them so the stink and sound of the port was barely noticeable, and he heaved a sigh of utter contentment. "This place is almost perfect, Liam."

"Right now, aye," Liam said, wringing out his own hair. "Three hours ago you hated it."

"Three hours ago I hated Captain Nolan. Still do, actually." Killian plucked a floating leaf from the water and curled it into a miniature boat. After six weeks of having to watch his every word, his every thought, the ability to speak freely was intoxicating. "I can see why men take notions in this place. About turning pirate, that is."

Liam gave him an even stranger look, and he hastily backtracked. "No, that's not what I meant, not that we should. You know I'd never leave you or the Navy. Just that I. . . I see."

Liam flashed a wry smile. "Aye, who would have guessed that giving independent, quarrelsome, adventurous men a wide-open space full of sea and sky and minimal authority would then induce some to decide to live by their own rules? Especially when money and drink and women are involved? It does not surprise me that there are pirates in the Caribbean, only that there are not even more. But that's what weak men do when faced by temptation, Killian. They break. And there is too much at stake here. We must not be weak men."

"You're right, of course." Killian hastily quashed the pang of shame he felt at Liam's words, his fear that even by entertaining the idea, he had proven his own unworthiness. "We won't speak any more of it, I promise. Now come on, it'll be dark soon, and unless you're that eager to spend another night on the ship, we should find lodgings."

"Aye," Liam agreed, climbing out of the pool as they shook themselves dry, pulled back on their rumpled uniforms, and trudged back up the hill toward the gate, which would be shut and locked at evenfall. Inside, the market was starting to close down and the crowds in the streets had thinned as folk drifted toward hearth and home, and they strode through the winding lanes and alleys in search of a respectable supper club. It was always difficult for the men to relax at a tavern if their commanding officers were watching from across the way the entire time, and since they had eaten all the piss-poor street slop they could stomach and then some, neither of them had a philosophical objection to taking the privileges their rank entitled them to. It had been a while before Killian could trust that their next meal was guaranteed, and that he didn't have to hoard food in case it wasn't. But the memories of the awful, aching starvation that gnawed his belly out, of never having enough as a growing boy, were not easily shaken. Liam always gave up part of his own rations for him, and Killian was still unable to rid himself of the guilt for pretending that he didn't know. He was so hungry that he would just take them and eat them. Liam must have felt the deprivation even worse than he did, but he never said a word.

In a few more minutes, they found a handsome red-brick establishment atop the hill, gazing imperiously down on the port below, that was clearly intended for the society and patronage of Army and Navy officers, plantation owners, wealthy merchants, and the other upper echelons of British gentry who might find themselves in need of an evening away from the rabble. They went inside and were seated by the solicitous proprietor, and when he had brought them two glasses of what he promised was an excellent local vintage, Killian took one and raised it to his brother. "Here's to us, Liam. Long live the brothers Jones."

"Hear, hear." Liam took the other and chimed it against Killian's, and they drank. As long as it wasn't rum, and as long as he didn't have more than the one glass, Killian supposed he should be all right. He'd had his first sip at age thirteen, as it was the easiest and most readily available remedy for an angry, heartbroken, headstrong boy who had been a slave since he was eight, and it quickly proved very easy to dive deep. He had nearly ruined everything for them by his drinking, and once they made it into the Navy thanks to Liam's heroism, swore he would never come close to it again. He still craved it, still couldn't be around the sailors when they were putting it down as if the world might end on the spot with them less than completely shite-faced, but he had gotten better about controlling it. Now that he didn't constantly need it to numb the pain, now that he had something to live for and to do well, there wasn't that black hole for it to fill. He reminded himself of what Liam had said earlier, about how weak men broke when faced with temptation, and as he did ten times a day, vowed that he was not going to be the one to ruin this for them. They seemed to have a depressingly bloody large number of volunteers for that job, anyway.

"So," Killian said, once their warm, savory-smelling supper had arrived and they started to tuck in. "How _are_ we going to pay for the refit? I suppose if worse comes to worse, you could always sell me back into slavery." He laughed, without humor.

Liam looked scandalized. _"What?_ Christ, who do you think I am? Papa?"

"Only a jest," Killian said hastily. He sometimes needed to float such a thing aloud, to hear what Liam would say to the possibility of abandoning him, if only to reassure the small, frightened voice in his head that he never would. That was what happened when the one man who was supposed to love and take care of you no matter what – your father – was the one who had sold you and your brother into slavery in exchange for a rowboat. "I know you'd never do that, Li."

"Good," Liam said, feathers clearly ruffled. "As for the refit, I'm still not sure. I'll have to pare it down to essentials and speak to the commodore at Fort Berkeley, see if there's an organized scheme to supply the other ships here, and who I have to bribe to get in on it. There have to be options, they wouldn't leave us completely hanging. We would have had plenty of money to purchase everything we needed if it wasn't for Gold and his delicacies."

Killian shot a reflexive look over his shoulder, but everyone appeared safely absorbed in their meals and conversations. "Well, I hope his roast pheasant with saffron was bloody worth it. Perish the thought that the Admiralty might have planned for that and granted us a larger stipend, but I suppose that's quite a lot of water under the bridge now. Or perhaps – "

"Excuse me, gentlemen," a voice said. A woman's voice, smooth and husky, darkly promising. "You seem new to the island and in need of assistance. Perhaps I could offer it?"

Killian and Liam glanced up in surprise and some indignation, opening their mouths, and then shut them at the same time with an audible click. The newcomer was dressed in a terrifically flattering gown of burgundy silk and onyx lace, flounced and ruffled and exposing a considerable amount of creamy white – Killian thought the technical term was _décolletage –_ with a cameo on a ribbon choker around her neck and her black hair styled in an elaborate, upswept braided crown, scarlet-painted lips drawn back to expose white teeth in a coy smile. She was indeed lovely, breathtakingly so in fact, but something about her instantly struck him as hard and dangerous beneath the paint and polish. Yet she was a lady, and good form was good form. He rose to his feet as Liam did the same, and took her offered hand to kiss. "Lieutenant Killian Jones, ma'am, at your service. And my brother, Captain Liam Jones, the same."

"Mistress Regina Mills, at yours." She offered an abbreviated dip of a curtsey, and with the niceties observed and thus no threat of the Tower of London crumbling abruptly to dust across the Atlantic, she took the extra chair at their table as if she was an invited guest arriving late. The Jones brothers exchanged looks, could think of no polite way to dissuade her, and getting the lay of the land from a well-informed and clearly well-connected civilian couldn't hurt. They cautiously resumed their seats as well, as she said, "You must be off the _Imperator,_ we had heard she wasn't supposed to arrive for two more days. Early landing?"

"Yes, ma'am," Liam said. "The Governor is officially in residence, all most proper."

"Oh yes. Robert Gold." Regina flashed an odd little smile. "We'll have to see what he makes of his new posting – and you of yours. So many responsibilities and distractions, it'll be all you can do to keep your head. I may be poised to assist on some of those fronts. You'll be here for the next – what, year? That's a long time for a man to be lonely."

Liam, who had just taken another sip of wine, spluttered, had to put it down quickly, and pounded himself on the chest. "I beg your pardon, mistress, are you soliciting us for – "

Regina's smirk remained. "What? Nobody told you who I am?"

"Should they have?"

"Not necessarily, but sailors do talk. Well then, for all intents and purposes, you can think of me as the queen of this two-bit little island. I own the establishment a few doors down from this one, and my girls are all beautiful, educated, clean, play the harpsichord or mandolin, and know how to dress and converse and comport themselves in high society. Not a filthy, halfwit slattern among them. Indeed, we tend to refer to the place as Whitehall, due to the number of Navy officers who have been in it. They sail into the harbor, step off their ship, and arrive at my place of business to select a mistress, it's quite a well-oiled system. We get the tiresome few loyal to their absent wives off in God knows where, but fortunately for business, those ones are very far between. So, are you interested in scheduling a consultation?"

Liam's face was turning steadily more purple – whether at the realization that they were being baldly propositioned by a high-class madam, the fact that she assumed they could not wait to rush along and do the same as their degenerate compatriots, or at the faint hint of sweet scent that must make a man want to bend close and take a deep whiff, it was hard to say. Killian himself had no desire to do such a thing, mostly due to the fact that he fully expected this woman to clap shut like one of those queer carnivorous flowers on any poor fool that tried, but he could see that Liam, for all his horror and dismay, was not completely impervious to her charm. "Actually," he said, as politely as he could. "You seem to have mistaken the nature of our conundrum, ma'am. We were not reckoning how we could afford an evening of no doubt boundlessly pleasurable company, but how we could afford to refit our ship and carry out our duties. Properly."

Regina's smile slipped a notch, before she managed to hitch it flawlessly back into place. "Married men? I must say, you don't have the look. As for that, I doubt there's a soul on this entire island who knows more of its plots, politics, inner workings, customs, strengths, weaknesses, and secrets than I do. Both here and the Leewards generally. You would do very well to cultivate my friendship. I could greatly aid and abet your tenure here, or I could. . . not."

This threat was delivered so elegantly and offhandedly that it took both the Jones brothers a moment to catch it. Then Liam glared at her, clearly unable to countenance the idea that their success or failure, and thus the prospects for their future career, could hang upon them having to get to know (almost undoubtedly in the biblical sense) one expensive courtesan and her impromptu intelligence network. Killian had no doubt that it was as good as she said, if every bloody officer on this island passed through her house; she had probably trained all of her girls to get them to sing like nightingales. _I knew this one was dangerous._ And as it seemed they had done nothing but make enemies since setting foot on Antigua, he wondered if they could afford to instantly alienate her as well. Bloody hell. For all its beauty and allure and seeming endless freedom, this place might be even more of a den of vipers than London.

"Well?" Regina said sleekly, clearly confident of her bargaining high ground. "If you're not going to patronize my establishment in person – and I must say, you have no idea what you'd be missing – there are other ways to show your appreciation. And you being clever men, can doubtless think of them. What a pity that I'd have to leave without telling you anything I know, but business is business." She gathered her skirts and started to rise.

"Wait." Liam put his hand on the table, and took it away to reveal a heavy silver coin, a newly minted crown stamped with George's autocratic German profile, glittering in the candlelight. "Is this the sort of appreciation you had in mind, madam?"

"It's a start." Regina eyed it greedily, picked it up to judge its weight in her palm, and must have found it satisfactory, as it vanished in a twinkling and she sat back down. "For the refit, you'll want to speak to Mr. Locksley, the steward and castellan at Fort Berkeley, and I daresay you won't even have to bribe him anything. He'll sort out how to get you supplied – tell him I sent you and he'll likely give you a discount." She smiled that cat-in-cream smile again. "Once that's done, I can imagine you did not come to the Caribbean merely to laze around. As well, I'm wagering, to impress Lord Robert Gold and entice him to keep his overlarge nose out of your business. Am I warm?"

"Possibly," Liam said shortly. "Go on."

Regina shrugged demurely. "As you know, the whole of the region is currently plagued by pirates of every ability, ambition, and sheer diabolical brazenry, to the point one must wonder if there are any demons left in Hell, or if it has been emptied and all of them are here. I doubt a ship could even enter the waters north of Hispaniola without being immediately stripped of all its goods and riches, and the carrion beetles cannot all pick the same carcass clean, so they have had to range further afield for prizes. None of them have been so bold as to openly attack the Navy base here, but one came as far south as Anguilla and seems inclined to stay, if the reports from your fellow officers are anything to go by. And in a place like this, where bribery and nepotism and corruption make it nearly impossible to get anything done in a timely fashion, well. . ." She shrugged. "Perhaps you two are just the fresh blood the island needs. A stunning success right off the bat, the capture of a known pirate threat. . . what do you say?"

"We're listening." Liam did his best to sound impassive, but Killian saw the flicker of hunger that crossed his face, kin to the one he himself felt. A voice in the back of his head warned him that nothing came easily in a place like this, and certainly not without a price, but if the rest of the Navy was too bogged down in infighting and enjoying the delights of Regina's establishment and whatever else, perhaps an example must be set. "Do you know anything about this vessel?"

Regina eyed him meaningfully. He sighed, dug in his pocket, and produced another crown.

"Obliged, Captain." She gave Liam a long, equally meaningful look in a different fashion, as if undressing him with her eyes. "You know, there really are far more satisfying ways of settling this account, and one which wouldn't cost you money you don't have to spare."

"I'll be the judge of that. What's this ship?"

"A brigantine," Regina said. "Faster than a sloop, and very likely faster than you, as well as being considerably more familiar with the region. Carries sixteen or eighteen guns, on the high end for a pirate vessel, and has caused considerable damage to larger ships with them."

"The _Imperator_ carries sixty," Killian interjected. "I doubt firepower will be a problem."

"Oh, it's not how large the gun is, Lieutenant. It's whether a man knows how to use it." She let her fingers trail across the back of his hand, but he jerked it sharply away, and their eyes locked, cold and challenging despite the air of cordiality. Then she smiled again and went on, "In any event, suit yourself, but your Navy brethren have consistently underestimated the pirates and paid dearly for it, so I wouldn't advise rushing headlong into repeating their mistake. The ship is called _Blackbird._ The crew will be well armed and prepared for a fight. I wouldn't advise trying to take prisoners, they'll do you no good and be more trouble than they're worth, so it would be wiser to kill them all. Except for the captain. There it might be worth your while."

"The captain?" Liam cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "And which of the infamous fiends commands this one? Vane? Flint? Henry Avery back from the dead with a crew of jolly skeletons?"

"None of those." Regina was clearly enjoying the reveal. "Not one you're likely to have heard of – yet. But as I said. You will, for any number of excellent reasons, want to make quite sure not to underestimate Captain Swan."


	2. II

**-II-**

Killian awoke to the smell of salt air and sunlight, a racket of birds in the trees outside the window, Liam snoring softly next to him, and the conviction, which he did not remember formulating before he fell asleep but nonetheless was firmly present, that they had very nearly made a terrible mistake and should thank their lucky stars that he had realized it in time. Did they really think there was even the slightest chance that they would be permitted to shirk whatever new assignment was on the docket, in favor of hunting a mysterious pirate vessel merely on the word of an untrustworthy brothel madam, passed to them in secret, with no way to be certain of the veracity of her information, her motives in selling it, or who else she might have shared it with? Last night, he had been mostly willing to overlook his instinctive distrust of Regina Mills in his thirst for a heroic opening act, but in the cold light of morning, he couldn't believe they had ever considered it. It could be some sort of fable she sold to all the newly arrived Navy officers, see which of them would rush out like fools on a snipe hunt and which would take the time to perform due diligence, weigh whether they could be trusted as informants, and if they were such colossal idiots as to up anchor and sail off without so much as a by-your-leave from the rest of the fleet. No. The _Blackbird_ most likely was not even a real ship, or it was nowhere near Antigua, or someone else had sunk it three years ago and this was a trick to prove that nobody read dispatches. Whatever it was, they were not about to twist their own noose in this scurrilous, dishonorable, deceitful fashion. He bloody well wanted those two crowns back.

Killian swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up in a huff. Ordinarily he would have enjoyed the luxury of a real mattress with real space, as well as a floor that did not rock and a window that could be opened without fear of abruptly being soaked to the skin, but this was more important. The proprietor had been rather taken aback when they asked if he had a room for the evening, as clearly most Navy officers did in fact go straight onto Regina's establishment after supper to wallow in sloth and silken sheets with any number of beautiful courtesans, but had finally been persuaded to rent them this attic eyrie at a more or less reasonable tariff. The bedclothes didn't even smell too squalid, and he had not been woken up in the night with the decided conviction that thousands of tiny vermin were feasting on his flesh, so that was even better. (He _had_ woken up several times because Liam kicked and stole the quilts, so he finally hit him very hard with a pillow, yanked them back, and managed to enjoy several uninterrupted hours of somniferous harmony until his current, unpleasant awakening.)

He crossed the bare boards to the chair where he had draped his uniform to air out, muttering to himself as he got dressed. It was a beautiful, cloudless day, and he decided he was going to pay a visit to Regina _before_ Liam woke up, just in case his brother was disposed to complain about his methods. Or if financial justice could not be achieved, at least get some information out of her that was actually worth what they had paid. Pernicious, treacherous, lying daughter of a –

"Killian? Where on earth are you going?"

He grimaced, turning around to see Liam propping himself up on an elbow and regarding him with confusion. "Go back to sleep, Li, it's still early. I'm just. . . I need to run an errand."

Liam, well used to rising before dawn, raised a skeptical eyebrow. "An errand you're going to share with me, no doubt?"

Killian hesitated. He had never before had to consider keeping a secret from his brother, and was aghast that the thought crossed his mind now, but honesty won out, and he outlined his suspicions as concisely as possible. "So," he concluded. "I was going to find Mistress Mills. I'm quite sure that everything she fed us last night was utter cock-and-bull, and I'm getting our bloody money back."

"So – what? You're just going to barge into the brothel before breakfast and demand a refund, as if you suspect a whore overcharged you for some exotic act of indecency?"

"She lied to us, Liam!"

"Aye," Liam said, sounding exasperated. "She might have. And there's still no good to be had from rushing to confront her over it! She could destroy the reputations of every officer on this island with a word in the right ear, and don't you think _someone_ might notice if yours was the hand to strike the match? There are plenty of ways to test the integrity of her information without making a spectacle. We need to pay a visit to Fort Berkeley and see about that resupply anyway, I'll raise the subject with the commodore and see if he's heard of a ship called the _Blackbird._ If he doesn't know anything about it, perhaps we'll pursue more direct avenues of recouping our money. Or perhaps we'll consider it an acceptable price for keeping that woman on our side, and get on with our bloody lives."

Killian glowered at him, half angry and half ashamed; Liam was always so confoundedly _logical_ about these things. Likely it was a good thing that one of them was, as he was still burning over the insult of it all, but he could grudgingly admit that his previous plan had not exactly been well thought through. "Fine, then," he said. "We'll do it your way. Though if we come out two crowns short on the bill, don't say I didn't warn you."

Liam rolled his eyes at the ceiling, but forbore to comment. Then he climbed out of bed, got dressed, and fifteen minutes later, they were emerging into the clear morning air, butter-warm sunlight striping the cobbles of the steep street. Tantalizing scents of fresh-cooked food drifted from the carts and stalls of the marketplace, and Killian stole longing looks at them as they passed, until Liam sighed deeply, tossed him a shilling, and said, "Fine, don't wither up and die."

Victuals acquired, they arrived at the port register office, where they were informed that a post-coach left promptly at ten o'clock every day for the twelve-mile journey to English Harbor. Having some idea of how long it would take a lumbering carriage to cross that distance on muddy roads while making a stop at every outpost in the interior, Liam declined and sent them next door to the stables, where they managed to rent a pair of horses. After one more stop at the ship to collect the supply list from Hawkins, along with his estimation of how much money remained to be spent on it, they were cantering briskly south on the well-rutted track, neither of them entirely at ease astride a horse instead of a deck, but willing to sacrifice in the interests of speed. It was dry and dusty, and the sunlight off the water was blinding, but their mounts were sound and sure-footed, and they reached English Harbor shortly after noon, heading up to Fort Berkeley to present their credentials. After the various rounds of introduction and schmooze, the fleet commander dispatched a dockyard crew to head north and sail the _Imperator_ back here to be berthed and refitted. As they stood on the quays, looking out at the half-dozen other Navy ships of the line anchored in the sheltered cove – third and fourth raters, along with several more fifth and sixth-rate attack frigates – he remarked, "Marvelous, isn't it? To see England's power manifest in even such a wild place as this?"

"About that," Liam said. "We came into possession of a certain piece of intelligence last night, and were wondering how far it could be trusted. Is it true that a pirate vessel, _Blackbird,_ has been conducting raids as far south as Anguilla, and could pose further and continuing danger to the Navy's interests in the Leewards and Windwards?"

Commodore Hamilton's lips went thin. He was a stout middle-fifties aristocrat, clearly appointed to this post by virtue of social status and reliability of following the law to the letter, and just as clearly preferred conducting business over long dinners and glasses of sherry rather than in the sun and wind – and certainly nowhere near the smoky gun deck of a man-of-war sailing into the teeth of a life-or-death firefight. "My good fellow, it is such a lovely day, must you spoil it with talk of those brigands? Aye, the name sounds familiar, but rest assured, the fleet has the matter entirely under control. Even if lawlessness may be the order of the day in New Providence, those spineless cowards would never attack Antigua. We are quite safe here."

"I don't doubt they wouldn't," Liam said. "But from what I've gathered, that's not how they operate. Why would they risk suicide in a direct assault on the Navy base, when they can just pick off ships that stray too far outside the protected perimeter? In that case, sitting here in safety might do us good, but certainly not the rest of the English merchants in the Indies. Do the pirates only attack English shipping?"

"How should I know what a gang of wastrels and traitors do?" Commodore Hamilton sounded irritated. "But what with the strict Spanish trade laws that only Spaniards are allowed to do commerce with their Caribbean possessions, one must hope that even renegade Englishmen have the sense not to poke Cadiz in the eye by plundering their vessels. We only just got the damned Treaty of Utrecht done, I doubt vermin who thrive in the shadows wish to bring the attention of another war, and the full might of the Spanish Navy, down on their heads. So they feel more confident burgling their own country's shipping instead. Unpatriotic, thieving ingrates!"

Clearly Commodore Hamilton was prepared to go on at considerable length as to his feelings on this matter, but Killian interrupted. "My lord, if that's the case, shouldn't we indeed make some sort of statement? If the _Blackbird_ is real, and if she is a threat, my brother and I are ready to take the _Imperator_ after her as soon as the refit is complete. Her master, this Captain Swan – is he one of the well-known rogues?"

"No idea, I've never heard of the man." Commodore Hamilton removed a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his gleaming forehead. "Who's been telling you all these things, anyway?"

Killian and Liam glanced at each other. It was the latter who supplied, "Merely gossip we heard after our arrival last night, my lord. If it is genuine, as my lieutenant says, we are fully prepared to act. Unless you are aware of other plans for our services?"

"I had also heard a rumor or two, aye." Commodore Hamilton eyed them shrewdly. "It was my impression that once you arrived and delivered the Governor safely – which you have done, happily – you were intended to be sent as part of an escort to Jamaica, to pacify the island after a number of recent slave revolts. Sugar production is at an intolerably low level for the last several quarters, it will be a miracle if the planters break even."

It took a moment for the brothers to absorb this. Then Killian, forgetting protocol entirely, burst out, "Bloody hell, don't tell me that doesn't have Gold's stinking fingers all over it! Of course he was intending to make us do this, see if we'd – Christ, if I could just get my hands on – "

Liam threw out an arm, catching Killian across the chest, and gave him a sharply warning look, even as Commodore Hamilton looked both stunned and suspicious by the vehemence of his reaction. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant? Are you saying you would not in fact accept a lawful reassignment by the Governor of the Leeward Islands, for the interests of the British Crown?"

"If it involves shooting unarmed, enslaved men and calling it justice," Killian said flatly, "no."

Liam's grip on him tightened. "What my brother means to say, without tact, is that we have repeatedly made our discomfort with this aspect quite clear, and for the sake of everyone's best interests, we feel as if we can be more useful on a different pursuit. Hunting pirates is one place where, I assure you, there are absolutely no mitigating factors holding us back."

"Mitigating factors?" Commodore Hamilton was still looking, to say the least, vastly dubious. "Is that what you call them? You are Navy men. You go where the Navy sends you, and for the Navy's interests, not yours. If you're still refusing to do this, how can we ever be sure that if it came to the ultimate choice, you would defend Great Britain above all else?"

"My lord, let us prove it." Liam let go of Killian, still adroitly keeping himself positioned between his fuming little brother and the commodore. "This doesn't need to be messy. Grant us leave to take the _Blackbird_. If we fail, we will submit ourselves for the Admiralty's judgment on that and any other matter. If not, why would you waste our skills, and our willingness to put them to use, in such trying and delicate circumstances?"

Hamilton mulled that over for a long moment. It plainly went against every fiber of his being to let a captain name his own course, instead of having it charted for him, and Killian tried to quash a sharp disdain. He couldn't believe they had to answer to men like this, this cowardly fat-arse armchair bureaucrat of a commodore, who'd probably wet himself in the heat of an actual battle and whose main concern seemed to be that his supper and drinks would not be jeopardized. Out of nowhere, he found himself wondering if Hamilton had selected a mistress at Regina Mills' establishment, and if so, what Regina might know about him. Not that he trusted that woman further than he could throw her, but information was always priceless.

"Very well," the commodore said at last. "I will present your proposal for consideration. It _is_ true that we have failed to make an effective response to the _Blackbird's_ ventures rather too close for comfort. Perhaps the Gordian knot will be slashed now that we have a governor in residence again. But if you fail to take her, or if you refuse another assignment, I will have no choice but to voice my concerns to the colonial administration, and to London. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord," Liam said, and stepped hard on Killian's foot.

"Yes, my lord," Killian said, and grimaced.

Once that ordeal was through, it was still left for them to find and introduce themselves to the Fort Berkeley castellan and figure out how to get their bill of lading approved. Robin Locksley turned out to be a friendly, well-tempered, sandy-haired man of about forty, and the first one they had met since their landing that both of them felt they might be able to trust. To Killian's delight, Robin did not care for his garrison commander any more than he himself did, openly referring to Captain Nolan as that "arrogant, obnoxious, brown-nosing imbecile," and promising that he would find a way to get all their supplies even if it should require him to discover a slight loss on the Army's books. Killian considered that while every single member of the royal forces stole whatever they could, Robin was the first one who seemed to have a good reason for _his_ stealing. As the castellan was hauling down a ledger, he said, "So, Mr. Locksley. Is there anything you can tell us about a pirate ship called the _Blackbird?"_

Robin dropped the ledger with a thump, stooping to retrieve it and opening it to a fresh page. "Did Regina tell you about that?"

"She – she did, aye." The madam's name had come up earlier in the course of achieving their promised discount, and Killian still had not been able to pinpoint the exact nature of their relationship. One would, given Regina's profession, suspect the obvious, but Robin had mentioned a wife back home in England, and he did not seem the sort to cavort with painted courtesans, even on the loneliness of a long overseas posting. They knew each other somehow and probably as more than mere business acquaintances, but the rest was a mystery. Killian also noticed that Liam had taken a carefully offhand interest in whether or not the castellan and the madam were _involved,_ no matter how much he pretended not to be listening, and got the sinking feeling that he would have to keep an eye on that. Liam had never been the type to have his head turned by a woman before, and Killian did not intend to have the first be such a patently untrustworthy, undeserving one. Getting them back out to sea and with the distraction of hunting a pirate ship should induce him to forget about her. He'd have to see that it did.

"Ah." Robin dipped his quill and scribbled a column of figures. "It's complicated. She has, shall we say, personal reasons for wanting the _Blackbird_ destroyed."

"Oh?" Killian's ears pricked up, as he felt deeply vindicated for suspecting all along that Regina hadn't been selling them that information from the goodness of her heart, or from an overwhelming interest in the Navy's safety and security in the Indies. "Such as what?"

"I don't think it's my place to tell you more." Robin frowned. "It's not common knowledge, and not something I'd want getting out. But she's lived here most of her life, and when that is the case, the lines between ally and enemy are not as clear-cut as they are for those of us who arrive from England, stay a few postings, and leave. One day a man you've known all your life could declare himself pirate, when until now he'd been a loyal subject, a good friend, and yet the law mandates you must be sworn enemies, that death is his only proper wage. What do you do then?"

"Experience speaking?" Killian asked. "Yours?"

"In that, yes." Robin smiled wryly. "I've been here some while as well. An orphan lad I raised as my own, Will Scarlet – he ran off to join the New Providence pirates a few years ago. I keep telling myself that I would have heard about it if they had hanged him."

"But he chose the dishonorable path of his own free will," Liam said. "There are no excuses for him. He has to know that is his fate, if he's taken."

"Aye." Robin's tone was still polite, but cooler. "Not that it makes me any more eager to watch a young man I loved swing from a noose, or to know that he had. You gentlemen will, I think, understand that conflict which comes from one's duty, one's orders, not always aligning with one's personal interests and deeper passions."

Liam opened his mouth again, but Killian took the opportunity to step on his foot in turn, both as payback from earlier and because he did in fact see Robin's point quite well. "If we hear word of him, we'll pass it along," he said. "If the bloody Navy agrees, we've been approved to hunt the _Blackbird_ and take its captain into custody."

"And the rest to the gallows, I presume?" Robin raised an eyebrow. "True, they have no better lot to expect, so that is no surprise. But pirate hunting isn't all you'd think it to be. You won't be the first to try to capture the _Blackbird,_ and it's quite possible you won't be the last."

"I assure you, sir." Liam moved forward. "We take the proposition seriously. If there is anything you know that can be honorably divulged to assist us in our work, we would be grateful."

Robin considered them for a long moment. Then he said, "You're some of the few Navy men who seem to understand what the pirates have to fight for, and how far they're willing to go to keep it. As such, you're not making the first mistake of thinking that they are all cockroaches who will be easily crushed beneath your heel. They turn their colors for different reasons, but at the heart of it, they are men who do not want to take orders from any save themselves, and who value freedom from tyranny above all things. It's not as simple as mere greed or weakness. If you're hunting them, with the knowledge of what you yourselves are willing to do in the name of your own freedom, you'd best keep that in mind."

"Slaves and pirates are different kettles of fish," Liam countered. "What boils the one does not do for the other. But your point is appreciated, Mr. Locksley. How long do you think it will take to complete the refit?"

Robin checked his figures. "Once everything is requisitioned, portaged, inspected, inventoried, loaded, billed, and paid, it should be no more than a fortnight. You'd best hope Commodore Hamilton has wrung a favorable decision out of the administration by then, or it'll be Jamaica for you. I advise plenty of quality time spent with the charts and atlases of the region, if you want a prayer of taking the _Blackbird_ by surprise. There are thousands of secret anchorages and hidden dangers where they can lure you into a trap. They won't be mad enough to face a ship of the line head-on, so they'll rely on tricks and subterfuge."

"We'll just need to get them out in the open ocean," Liam said. "Sixty guns against eighteen should even the odds nicely."

"Which is why I can imagine they'll do their best to make sure you don't." Robin sprinkled sand from the blotter on the page, blew it dry, and shut the book. "They sank a sixth-rate with thirty guns, HMS _Valiant,_ three years ago. Of course, if they hadn't baited her to follow them into a storm, it might not have been that easy, but Captain Colter had just made post, and wanted the same kind of opening success you two are after." He stood up, turned around, put the ledger back on the shelf, and then added in a careful voice, "Don't mention him to Regina."

"Oh?" Killian resolved on the instant to do some research in the fortnight or so they would be on the beach. "Well, Mr. Locksley, you've been a bloody sight more helpful than anyone else we've met, so you have our thanks for that. We had best be leaving soon if we want to get back to town before dark, but we'll just have to see that our ship has made it safely here. If you have any concerns or queries about the refit, you may address correspondence to Mr. Elias Shaw's public house in St. John's. I'm sure we'll be back to check on the progress."

"Of course." Robin inclined his head politely. "I am glad to have been of service, and will endeavor to have this all completed in timely fashion. Good day, gentlemen."

Donning their hats and dusty jackets, the Jones brothers strode out of his office, down the narrow stone steps of the tower, and out of the fort, onto the road that switchbacked steeply down the hill. They could see the _Imperator_ in the bay below, which seemed to indicate that the dockyard crew had retrieved her successfully, and as they made for the hitching post where they had left the horses, Killian glanced at Liam. "Who do you think Captain Colter was?"

"Bloody hell," Liam grumbled. "How did I know you were going to ask that?"

"I'm just saying, it seems relevant, if that Mills woman has her own designs in wanting the _Blackbird_ ruined. Someone close to her, perhaps? If she blames the pirates for getting him killed, even if the fool sailed into the storm on his own accord, that might explain a good deal."

"He's dead either way," Liam said, with the air of someone doing his utmost to insist that this was a mere professional interest. "And we can't be serving as the agents of a personal vendetta. Our motives in pursuing the _Blackbird_ would have to be strictly aboveboard, in the broader defense of the Royal Navy and the region. It does sound as if they're a real enough menace, and that Regina wasn't lying in what she told us, so can you see why it would have been ill-advised for you to storm into the brothel and cause a scene?"

"Indeed," Killian muttered. "I still don't care for her, though."

"Nobody said you have to like your allies. Just to cooperate with them. And I have warned you several times by now, we can't make her into our enemy."

"That doesn't mean we have to make her into anything else, either. I'm not trying to be an arse, but. . . I saw the way you looked at her."

"I'm a flesh-and-blood man, and she's a beautiful woman." Liam sounded mildly annoyed. "If I noticed, it does not imply any prejudice of my judgment. I'm not a fool, little brother. I know she's dangerous. But it's the sort that could be quite beneficial working with us, and bloody fatal working against us. So keep your jealousy on rein, and we'll get to the bottom of this."

"Jealousy?" Killian scoffed, as they untied their horses and swung up, trotting toward the gates. "What makes you think that?"

Liam glanced over at him seriously. "It's all right. I understand where you're coming from. You're not used to the prospect of having to share me with anyone, or to fear that I might put their interests over yours. Well, if that's what alarms you – that Regina might beguile me astray and cause me to forget about my duty to you and the ship and the men – it needn't. You have always and forever come first to me, and you always will."

"Well," Killian said, somewhat mollified. "Can you fault me for worrying? It's not as if I never want you to have a life or a partner outside me, Liam. I'm just already bloody on edge from this entire rigmarole, and she's not the most comforting of bedfellows, in any sense of the word."

"I can't dispute you on either point. What was that song Whale was teaching the crew a while ago, the one about the four sorts of men that no one's ever met?"

" 'Ne'er a Scotsman 'twas sober, he's sozzled with drink/Ne'er a Welshman 'twas honest, his oath's bound to stink/Ne'er an Irishman 'twas loyal, he'll stab you in the back/Ne'er an Englishman 'twas decent, it's you he'll attack? So give three cheers to King and Crown, and hoist the Union Jack?'"

"Yes, that one." Liam looked wry at the fact that Killian could recite it so word-perfectly. "I always wondered which of them the man who wrote that song was from. I rather suspected it was the last one, and it was a point of pride. Aside from Mr. Locksley, I'd say we've been in no danger of meeting a decent Englishman for a while, but that does not give us leave to carry out the Irishman's portion of the ballad. There must be no more outbursts such as the one with the commodore earlier, Killian. Smile, salute, and do what they tell you, at least until we're to sea again and well away from the lot. Do you understand me?"

Killian was quiet, focusing on the road, able to tell that he would be bloody sore from nearly thirty miles of jouncing and jolting, and still struggling with the impulse to tell Liam exactly what he thought of Commodore Hamilton. But as usual, the sleeping bear did not need poking, and there was already enough to keep them, or at least him, well occupied until the _Imperator_ was ready to sail again. After managing six weeks stuck aboard a ship with Robert Gold, surely a fortnight of relative freedom would not be any harder. And Liam had made a decision. No matter what else Killian thought of their so-called friends and allies, he was bound to follow his brother, his captain, until the end.

"Aye," he said at last. "I understand you, Liam."

* * *

The sun was very low in the west and they nearly missed the evening bells when they made it back to St. John's, returning the tired horses to the stables and feeling in need of some refreshment themselves. They climbed the street to their lodgings, Killian thinking longingly of a nice steak and kidney pie with something stout to wash it down, when Liam stopped short, almost causing him to run into him. "Hold on. I want to visit Regina first."

"What – now?" Killian had borne up with everything else thus far, but asking him to postpone his sorely needed supper on _her_ behalf was one outrage too many. "Bloody hell, suit yourself, but I'm not strolling into the brothel for a nice visit with the Witch of Endor when – "

"Don't worry, the women will only throw themselves at you if you pay them." Liam, damn him, seemed to be finding this funny. "Also, if every other Navy officer makes a custom of visiting within his first day and night on the island, we should at least be spotted doing the same. Besides." The smirk reappeared. "You might enjoy it."

"I am _not_ buying a night with some harlot, Liam."

"If you wanted to, nobody would think you the lesser for it. I'd give you the money, and I wouldn't even tell Hawkins what it was actually spent on."

"No, I said." While he was not a _complete_ novice at this, had paid to lose his virginity soon after they got into the Navy, and then a few times thereafter, he was not particularly experienced with women, and they tended to make him nervous. Whores were even worse, as he always had the sense that they could see straight through all his masks and walls, all the things he told himself, the persona of a proper, upright, well-raised young lieutenant that he held so close for his own sanity, his own belief in himself to be able to go on. It wasn't as if they were cruel about it; cozening and flattering customers was what they did, after all. Just that they _knew,_ and it seemed too intimate a liberty to allow a perfect stranger, even if you were naked in bed with her. He was too scared of what anyone might see to let them in. Liam knew who he was, and Liam was the only person he trusted, so that was good enough. Whores gossiped, whores lied. Even the urge for carnal union, which he too possessed as a likewise flesh-and-blood man, wasn't always enough to outweigh that fear. "This had better be brief, and then straight to supper after."

Liam clapped him on the shoulder. "I promise I won't let you starve, little brother. Come on."

Still muttering, Killian resignedly followed him past Mr. Shaw's and down the lane some further few steps, where they found an elegant red-glass lamp hanging by an otherwise discreetly unmarked door. Liam rapped on it, as Killian wondered if they were about to walk into the middle of some Roman orgy with writhing limbs and bare flesh everywhere; he was not, he decided, prepared to view such a spectacle without warning. But the woman who opened the door was daintily gowned in lace, lawn, and damask, wearing a neat white cap, such that she could have passed for a gentlewoman in London and nobody would have looked twice. "Good evening, Captain, Lieutenant," she said, dropping a gracious curtsy. "Please, do come in."

Killian and Liam followed her down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway to a large, well-lit drawing room at the back, populated by half a dozen or so girls. They looked surprised to see potential clients so early, as business must usually not hot up until later in the night when men had finished their drink and cards and sought out more privy company, but sprang to their feet, straightening their skirts. Their necklines were perhaps a touch lower than was commonly considered acceptable, their perfume rather stronger, but they were still otherwise lovely, well-dressed, and impeccably behaved, just as Regina had promised. These were the higher class of courtesan, not a cheap tavern whore; the sort you could take on your arm to balls and supper parties and social engagements without anyone ever suspecting her occupation (unless they too were regulars of the same establishment, Killian supposed, and in that case would have equal incentive to keep their mouths shut). They all made correct curtsies in turn, maintaining the illusion splendidly, until the one at the end said, "So, what is it tonight, good sirs? Did you want one of us both together, or would you like one apiece? More?"

Killian choked. Liam thumped him helpfully on the back, then said, "Ah – no, ladies, I've in fact come to speak to the madam. If she isn't otherwise engaged, could you fetch her?"

The girls looked surprised, but one of them hurried off to get Regina, and several of the others eyed Killian keenly. They were clearly thinking that they could make the visit worth his while even in a short time, and he had no intentions of letting them prove it. He cleared his throat. "Liam, I'll just – I think I should wait outside."

"You are not standing on the doorstep of an expensive brothel watching every man-jack stare at you from the street," Liam informed him. "The point is to be seen going into it, not loitering in front of it. Sit down and relax, you'll give yourself an apoplexy."

Killian sat stiffly on the very edge of the davenport, prepared to spring up in an instant if any lurking lady of the evening should attempt undue familiarity with his person, hands folded like a choirboy. It was at that moment that Regina elected to make her entrance, dressed tonight in an equally stunning off-the-shoulder blue velveteen confection with a double rope of black pearls around her slender neck; the woman might be evil, or at least dangerously vindictive, but her wardrobe was undeniably magnificent. Her dark red lips split in a sultry smile at sight of her visitors – or rather visi _tor,_ as she scarcely even seemed to notice Killian. "Captain Jones. I hoped I'd be seeing you."

With a slight tilt of her head, the madam ordered the other girls to give them the room; they picked up books and samplers and scurried out. When they were alone, Regina sauntered across the expensive carpet to Liam, putting her hand on his chest. "It looks as if you've had a hard day, Captain. Is there anything my humble abode can do to assist you in relaxing?"

"Ah – not at the moment." Liam tried to get out from under her touch, but not very hard, and put up no protest at all when she took his lapel in her other hand. "We've been to Fort Berkeley. Mr. Locksley was most helpful, as you said. We also took the opportunity to ask some questions about the _Blackbird."_

"Did you." Regina's seductive demeanor didn't overtly change, but Killian sensed an alteration of some sort nonetheless. She went quite still, like a snake coiling to strike, before apparently deciding that whatever this was, it posed no immediate threat to her, and her smile reappeared. "I must say, Captain, you're the first man who has ever taken the time to ask a second question about the affair, rather than trying to rush out headlong, gripped by delusions of grandeur. I can respect that in a partner. Surely you didn't hear anything to change your mind?"

"I – ah." Liam blinked hard, clearly finding concentration more difficult than usual. "No, of course not. We concur with you that hunting and sinking the ship is of the utmost priority for Antigua's future safety and prosperity. The only thing I was still uncertain of is how many captains exactly you have asked to do this before us, and why they failed."

Regina hesitated. Then she smiled again, moving her hand to cup the back of his neck and arching her hips in order to give him an excellent view down the front of her dress. "Does it matter? They were incompetent, and they were not strong enough to do what had to be done. I don't think I'll have that problem with you. Shall I, Liam?"

Killian stood up, rather loudly, at that moment. "Good evening, Mistress Mills."

"Lieutenant." She let go of Liam quickly, turning to face him with a cordial but very cool nod. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that your brother has his little shadow with him. Even in a house of pleasure? One of my girls is certain to be _most_ to your liking."

"I'm not here for the girls." Killian took a step. "He asked you a question. How many captains have you sent after the _Blackbird_ before?"

"Three? Perhaps four?" Regina shrugged irritably. "If the job had been done properly the first time, I wouldn't have had to keep looking for help. Mark my words, I want that ship sent to the bottom of the ocean, its crew hanged as traitors, and its captain to suffer for a good long time. Eternity, say." Her cheeks had gone bloodless, white as bone, even beneath her heavy rouge, and her eyes were as dark and flat as two chips of onyx. "I know mercy isn't one of the British Crown's preferred methods of dealing with pirates to begin with, and it is my hope that you will feel entirely at leave to let the dogs off their collars, as it were. Destroy them all."

Killian opened his mouth, about to defy all prohibitions to the contrary and ask her outright who Captain Colter was, when he saw Liam shaking his head at him furiously. He shut it, still unable to resist the thought that it was a good thing he was along, or Regina would have had Liam sewed up neatly in her spiderweb and saved to snack on later. He was not used to seeing Liam not in command of himself or of the situation, and found it deeply unsettling. Aye, she was beautiful, but Liam was _better_ than this! He was a hero! He'd gotten them out of slavery and into the Navy, he was a good man and a captain and a soldier in ways Killian could only vainly dream and delude himself of being! He wasn't fallible enough to fall prey to the charms of a mere brothel madam, no matter how alluring! Liam didn't make mistakes. Only he, Killian, did.

The tension remained exquisite for another few moments. Then Regina, realizing her slip, pulled herself together and smiled demurely, as if in apology for letting such extremes of passion show through – but, Killian thought, it was rage at herself for letting them see it, rather than apology for its existence or feeling it unwarranted. "Please," she said. "I do forget myself. I have every confidence that you will be able to handle the situation as it demands. And if so, you will have my eternal gratitude. As I said, I have fingers in every pie on this island and throughout the Caribbean. I'll see to it that the correct strings are pulled, and you get the recognition and the posting you deserve. Do not underestimate my power, work to help me achieve this aim, and you'll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams."

At that, Killian couldn't hold back the chill, and glancing at Liam, he could furtherly see that he was the only one who had felt it. Because as much as it sounded like hope and a promise, like a glowing enticement toward a glorious future, he knew quite certainly that it was a cold and unyielding threat. That whatever had happened to those three or four captains before them – if Regina was even being accurate in her reporting – whether they had met their ends by inevitable or evitable design, was only the very leading edge of the tempest that lay beyond.

* * *

Pulling down her rain-sodden hood and moving closer to the huge hearth, grateful for its warmth even on a summer night – the storm had come sharply out of the north from what had been a clear sky a quarter-hour earlier, and she could still feel chilly droplets rolling down her back – Emma Swan dried out for a few moments, tidied the runaway tendrils from her tangled blonde braid out of her eyes, and then moved to take an unobtrusive seat in the corner, signaling the barmaid and putting her boots up on the spare stool. The tavern was dim and smoky, not only from the hearth but from the racks of tallow candles, which did not burn as clean as fine beeswax, and soot and grit showed black in the weathered wood, the plastered walls, and the beams of the low ceiling. A dismal hurdy-gurdy player cranked a melancholy tune, the gang of ruffians a few tables over looked to be either drinking in between their brawling or brawling in between their drinking, and to judge from the argument behind her, somebody had definitely just been caught cheating at cards. This sty was rather vile even by her unexacting standards, as this line of work rarely led you to garden parties at Versailles (or even places where you would feel safe without several daggers down your boots) but she had to follow the money.

Emma nodded her thanks as the barmaid set down a tankard, tossed her a coin, and took a cautious sip. The ale was surprisingly good, dark and rich, so she took another, doing her best to appear casual. The instructions had been for her to come alone, so she had – if "alone" meant that Merida, Will, John, and Michael were stationed around the inn, each loaded down with pistols, cutlasses, and other lethal implements, and all would come running in an instant if they heard her yell. Of course she wasn't an idiot. Cockburn Town, the capital of the Turks Islands, supposedly lay on the very spot where the legendary Spanish conquistador Juan Ponce de León had first set foot ashore in the New World, probably in the course of one of his fruitless searches for the Fountain of Youth. The islands were a hundred and fifty leagues southeast of Nassau, a voyage of about a week, and hence far enough to be certain that no other crew would get word of this prize. The waters around New Providence had become so infested with treasure hunters that every middling merchanter with its unremarkable cargo got fought over like a scrap of meat among starving wolves, and Emma did not intend to pick pennies out of an empty hold with half a dozen other captains on her arse. She'd take a good score and she'd take it however she had to.

She glanced at the door, wondering when the informant would get here. The Turks and Caicos archipelago, while not achieving the same notoriety or center of influence as the Bahamas, was still a known pirate hideout running by the pirates' laws, and someone not accustomed to it could easily find himself in a spot of bother. He, also not being an idiot, had not told her where he was coming from or exactly where, or when, he planned to arrive, thus removing her ability to cut out the middleman, as it were, and take the information by force without having to pay for it. She got the sense that this was a middle ground for both of them, and tried to guess at his origin. Jamaica? Possibly. Barbados? No, that one seemed too far to haul all the way north. Another Nassau captain, thinking he had one up on her? He'd be in for a nasty surprise if so.

Emma touched the handle of her basket-hilted saber, reminding herself that no matter what, he'd make her wait. Just in case this _was_ a trap, she'd ordered the _Blackbird_ anchored across the bay in Salt Cay, and she and the others had crossed in a pirogue, which would make for a quick getaway. She wondered if she should have left one of them to keep an eye on Felix, as no matter how good a quartermaster the man was, she never felt entirely comfortable turning her back on him for long. But she had ultimately decided that protecting herself was more important, and Felix was liable to take umbrage if he felt spied upon or disrespected in his charge of commanding the ship in her absence. Besides, just in case, she didn't want him in on the secret.

Emma took another sip of ale and looked at the door again. Whoever this fool was, and no matter how much money he was promising, her patience was not infinite, and if she had risked enough already to come out here and end up with nothing, someone was going to pay for it. She had also decided that whatever did come out of this, it was not going through Eleanor Guthrie. She respected the fence of Nassau, another young woman scratching and clawing to make a place and a name in the world, and she was grateful for the leads Eleanor had given her in the past; she had a sense that Eleanor trusted her more than the other captains, because she thought she could always count on Emma to take her side. Usually this was true, as their interests tended to align, and they were in many ways very much alike. But for this job, she didn't owe anyone anything. Eleanor had had no role in giving her the information or setting up the rendezvous, and Emma did not intend to launder the money through Eleanor's accustomed channels. That was the one way to ensure that every godforsaken pirate on New Providence found out about it and decided to discover who else they could be working for, and then everything would go straight to hell. It was for Eleanor's own good, really. If she didn't know, and nobody else did, business could carry on as usual. Emma would make all the profit without handing over a cut, and it would go straight to Virginia. Charles and Henry would be set for the next ten years.

She waved the barmaid off when she returned to see if Emma wanted something to eat, and was just about to get up and investigate outside the tavern when there was movement at the door. A tall figure in a riding cloak and hood ducked beneath the low lintel, glanced from side to side, and apparently decided that the only woman in breeches, boots, belted cavalier coat, and tattered black hat must be the one he was looking for. He adroitly navigated through the crowded tables, avoiding both the brawlers and the cheaters, until he slid in across from her. "Captain Swan?"

Emma inclined her head fractionally. He still had his hood up, but she caught a glimpse of grey eyes in a handsome, dark-complected face. He had some kind of accent – Portuguese, perhaps, or Spanish. That was strange. There were Spanish pirates, of course; men from every background saw the opportunity to better their fortunes in the Caribbean, leaving tyrannical old masters and lives of wretched servitude behind. But for whatever reason, there were no Spanish pirate captains of the same stature or infamy as the English ones. There had been plenty of privateers a hundred years ago, but since New Spain and the Indies were such a lucrative source of wealth for the newly established Bourbon dynasty, doubtless they no longer saw the need to support any such on-the-side endeavors. And as Spanish men-of-war had a fearsome reputation that the thus-far largely ineffective Royal Navy did not, perhaps disgruntled Spaniards thought the pickings were easier and less dangerous on the English side of the fence. Not that she knew if this one was a captain, but he had that innate air of command and authority, of someone who expected his orders to be followed, not your average catspaw. His speech sounded well-educated to boot. A Spanish nobleman left on the wrong end of the war, perhaps? This _was_ getting interesting.

"I am," she said out loud, knowing better than to ask for his. Any name he gave her would be false, anyway. "I was wondering whether you were going to appear."

"My word is my bond, Captain." A flash of a white smile beneath the hood, as he beckoned for his own drink. "If nothing else, curiosity would have brought me here to see for myself. How does a lovely young English rose like you become a cutthroat rogue?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business." Emma smiled demurely in return. "Perhaps if your information is good, we can spare a few moments to get to know each other. Otherwise, you can make the mistake of many others of your kind, and underestimate me."

"Not at all, mistress. Not at all. Indeed, we think you are the only woman for this task."

"We?"

"I am representing both myself and the interests of a powerful patron, madam. Someone who has vast ability to control the future of the Indies. He is – how you say – a great admirer. As was promised, the reward for success will be considerable. You may never have to work again."

Emma raised an eyebrow. She doubted it, but you also didn't walk away from leads like this. She waited as the barmaid set down his drink, and when she was gone, said, "So what's the prize?"

"It is. . . formidable, my lady. The reward is so high precisely because of the difficulty of the enterprise. It will not come cheap, and it will not be easy." The man passed her a scrap of folded parchment. "Read that, but do not say the name aloud. Then burn it."

Emma took it, opened it, and scanned it, just managing to hold back an exclamation. Then she fed it to the candle, waiting until the flame wicked up the page and it was fully ablaze, before tossing it into the hearth. "You are asking me," she said flatly, "to take down a third-rate ship of the line, sixty guns? You realize my vessel is an eighteen-gun brig built for speed, do you not?"

"As I said. It will not be easy. But you sank a sixth-rater a few years ago, no?"

"Aye. But that was half the rate, half the tonnage, half the guns, and the storm did half the work. I didn't imagine myself some victorious giant-slayer, and now you're asking me to hang myself out to dry, quite literally, to the entire Royal Navy. You must be out of your _bloody_ mind."

"Captain. Wait. Listen." The man reached for her as she started to rise. "There is more. The ship is assigned as part of a convoy to Jamaica. It will anchor in a secluded area, away from the rest of the fleet. It will never come to a head-to-head battle. All you have to do is sneak aboard and take it. Kill the officers, steal whatever you want, and you're done. One night's work."

Emma eyed him narrowly, smelling all kinds of rats and not even sure which one she should try to catch first. "And how exactly do you intend to ensure that the ship is anchored away from its fellows? Almost as if you have someone in the Navy itself who can see to it that it is?"

"I am afraid I cannot say." The informant smiled self-deprecatingly. "But do trust me when I say that it can be counted upon. The vessel will be alone, and in shallow water. Sixty guns are no use against a quick, deadly ambush party who can overtake it at night, while the crew will be sleeping. Grapnel hooks and ropes will be sufficient to climb the sides. Doubtless the captain and officers will resist. They must die, do you hear me? My patron is very firm on this point."

Emma wasn't sure she liked the sound of this in the least. "You need a man dead, you bloody kill him yourself. None of this fucking about. I don't sell myself out for cowards who can't swing their own blade, or need me to do their dirty work."

"Not even for a greater cause? This captain, he is one of the worst in the entire Royal Navy. Vicious, brutal, a slaver and a despot. All his men fear and hate him."

"So the Navy's asking me to put down their mad dog for them? Bloody hell!"

"The Navy has nothing to do with it. As you may know, those are just the sort of traits they value in their captains. We represent a third party interest, as it were. This man wants to take over the entire West Indies, and unlike the rest of the buffoons Westminster has sent out here, he may actually be able to do it. Kill him, and you ensure that the pirate way of life – your life, those of your friends, your crew's – is bought a little time. It is very much in your interests, my lady."

"So – what? That still means I kill a Royal Navy captain and instantly make myself the most wanted pirate in the Caribbean. You have some magical solution for that?"

"Only if you were so clumsy as to let everyone know it was you. That is another advantage to a masked midnight raid, you see. In all the chaos and confusion, nobody will have the faintest notion who was responsible. And if it should come out, I daresay it would be a rallying cry and point of pride, as much or more than a hindrance. What pirate would not want to sail under the banner of a captain bold enough to take down a very cornerstone of their greatest enemies, woman or no? Your name would be feared across the Caribbean. Can the Navy destroy every single man who would be inspired to pick up arms because of you? Given how they can barely manage the disconnected, disorganized threat currently facing them, I am inclined to think not."

Emma didn't answer immediately. Whoever this mysterious patron was, he had done a good job in selecting this silver-tongued young Spaniard (or whatever he was) as his envoy; a few moments ago she had been about to storm out in high dudgeon and now she found herself leaning toward him, wanting to hear more. Her crew was brave, fierce, and mostly loyal, but it was also quite small. No aspiring pirate wanted to sail under a female unless he had already canvassed every other captain on Nassau and been turned down. That left her with the last pick of the barrel: the cripples, the cheaters, the lunatics, the drunkards, the murderers, the criminals and cowards and rapists. Sometimes the chaff could be turned into wheat by dint of vigorous thrashing, but that was as rare as you would expect, and she had to reject most of them out of hand anyway. She did manage to attract a few qualified recruits from time to time; after the sinking of the _Valiant,_ she'd selected nearly half of her current crew. But for the most part, she sailed with the knowledge that any man lost would not be soon replaced, if ever, and it made her more cautious than she wanted to be; the fact that she was even considering taking on a third-rater in any shape or form was testament to her desperation. A cautious captain was usually a poor captain, and a poor captain was soon a dead, or at least a deposed, captain. And if that happened to her, either Charles and Henry starved, or she became a dockside whore, selling her body to other pirates who got to carry on just because they were men. She'd sooner kill herself.

"Well?" the informant said. He must know he had her in a corner, but manfully resisted the urge to gloat. "Do you agree it is in your interest, my lady?"

"Possibly." Emma tried to keep her tone noncommittal. "Still no way of knowing if it's anything more than a lot of pretty words, though."

"You are a hard bargainer. I am impressed. Of course, I did not expect a pirate to trust promises alone." The informant reached into his cloak and produced a small black sack, which clinked as he drew it out. "Does this provide some more concrete assurance of our sincerity?"

Emma took it, tugged the strings open, and peered inside. What she saw made her heart skip a beat, and she pulled it swiftly shut. Several more things about the situation now made an abrupt and unsettling amount of sense. "Spanish silver," she said in a whisper. "So you are a Spanish agent. That's why you want a Royal Navy ship, with a brutal captain capable of taking over the Indies, out of the way. Because how much better for King Philip if the English remain disorganized and distracted, with the pirates terrorizing their shipping? So much easier to restart trade and commerce after the war. So much less competition."

"You said it, my lady. Not me." The informant shrugged. "Would that trouble you, if so?"

Emma had to take a moment to consider her answer. Christ knew there was no love lost between her and England, but there was no particular burning animus either. Her reasons for turning pirate had been personal, not political. She was well aware that England would cheerily hang her if it got the first chance, so that her opinion on it did not matter a brass dam, but that didn't mean she was eager to cozy up to the Spaniards, either. While it might be in their interests to sponsor an ongoing localized revolt against English authority in the Caribbean, they would be no more eager to take the chance of the pirates then turning against them. They had plenty of treasure galleons operating in the area, after all. The stronger New Providence got, the closer they came to deciding that one of those could be taken as well, and damn the risk of starting another war.

"I don't know," she said at last. "There are too many outside interests in this. A thousand different ways it could all come tumbling down."

"He who risked little never gained much. If you don't want the job, I'll be having that gold back, and off to find a proper pirate who does. Not a little lady playing at swords."

"No." Emma clenched her fist. "Say I was to take it. When would I be able to find the ship? Hurricane season starts in July, and it's the summer solstice now. It's another week's voyage from here to Jamaica, assuming we left right away, so that puts us right at the brink. Wait much longer, and we could end up sunk for our trouble to boot."

"I have every confidence you can manage, my lady. Besides, if worse comes to worse, all you have to do is lure this one into the storm, just as you did with the last one. We are not particular about how it is destroyed, only that it is. The compensation will be – " he nodded at the gold she was still clutching – "considerable. That is only the smallest part. So, then. Do we have a deal?"

Emma hesitated one last time. Knew this was dangerous – but then, everything in her life was. As he said, no small risk ever resulted in a great gain, and if she could do it, it would be the end of this constant charade of her captaincy, where she was indeed a girl playing with a wooden sword, at the end of the string and the bottom of the pole, always the loss of two men away from total disaster. She would become a captain, a legend, to be feared, just like the rest. And then when she had enough, she could retire, take Charles and Henry, and move to Boston or New York or Philadelphia. Just a little bit more. Just a little bit longer. Then they could make a home.

"Aye," she said, spat in her palm, and looked him dead in the eye. "So you do."


	3. III

**-III-**

It was quite late, the horned moon low on the horizon and a soft night wind ruffling the plantains and palms, when Emma emerged from the tavern, stepped over the drunkard sprawled in the mud, and, putting two fingers in her mouth, gave a short, sharp whistle. At once the bushes rustled, there was a thump, and four shadows cut themselves out of the black cloth: her first mate, Will Scarlet, the young Scotswoman, Merida Dunbroch, and the Darling brothers, John and Michael. They fell into step behind her, knowing not to ask questions or even speak until they were safely back, and descended to the quays, where they'd tied the pirogue. Piling in and running up the one small sail, they aimed themselves into the deep, swift-running current of the Turks Passage; it was four miles across the water to where they had left the ship. Emma was very much looking forward to the prospect of some sleep, at least for a few bells, as they'd be setting sail to Jamaica the instant the wind was favorable. They'd have to be careful, as that was solidly Crown territory, but the _Blackbird_ was not so famous as to be known on sight like Flint's _Walrus,_ Vane's _Ranger,_ or Hornigold's _Marianne,_ and the Governor of Jamaica, Lord Archibald Hamilton, had proven willing to look the other way if the pirates paid him enough. He was even rumored to have commissioned his own privateer to ensure his cut of the take, a man named Jennings. Nobody had seen said Jennings on Nassau, possibly because he was well aware that he would be jumped and murdered before the day was out, but tales of his ruthlessness were starting to spread. Best hope he decided to bite the hand that fed him, and not someone else's.

The squall from earlier had passed on, so it was a completely clear night, the sky dripping with stars like fat crystals, as they skimmed across the nearly calm, glassy water. The distant dark silhouettes of the Caicos islands rose off to starboard, and ahead, the salt flats that had given Salt Cay its name glimmered whitely. They could make out the shape of the _Blackbird,_ growing larger as they drew closer, rocking gently at anchor in the inlet. In the tradition of all pirate vessels, they'd had to capture her; she had begun life as a French scout and attack frigate, _La Princesse de la Mer,_ before Emma and the crew commandeered her in a lightning raid on Saint-Domingue. Finding the old name a bit grandiose for her tastes, she had changed it, though she was still liable to find things stamped with _La Princesse_ turning up here and there. It felt a bit like mockery; pirates had no princesses, nor kings nor queens nor lords or ladies, and she herself was the furthest thing from royal. But the crew joked it must have been meant for her, and the romanticism of the "Pirate Princess" made for a good story, so she did her best to overlook it.

They reached the side, signaled, and had ropes thrown down, as Emma, Will, and the Darlings climbed aboard; Merida, the strongest swimmer, would beach the pirogue and then make her way back out. It belonged to the local salt miners, who had agreed to lend their vessel in exchange for payment, and Emma tossed Merida one of the Spanish pieces of eight to give to them, as that was more than they would see in a year. At this, everyone's eyes went wide, and Will said, "So, takin' it that the meeting went well?"

"Aye." Emma always had to weigh how much to tell them. She trusted these four the most, hence why they had been elected to accompany her, and her crew was never one to back down from a challenge. Still, letting the news slip that she had enlisted them to take down a third-rater was one that could do her more harm than good. In the heat of a fight, they might not care, but give it time to fester in their minds beforehand, and they could second-guess themselves, hold back, at a critical moment. So what she said was, "We've been hired to take down a greatly valuable prize in Jamaica, and we'll need all our strength and cunning to do it. I'll tell you more when we arrive, but we set sail at sunrise."

"Best be gettin' this wee boat back then, aye?" Merida tied back her unruly red curls and disappeared back over the edge of the railing, abseiling down the side of the ship, until they heard her land with a thump in the pirogue. There were soft splashes as it started to move, and Emma watched it dart toward the coast, a further hundred yards in; this was the closest they could bring the _Blackbird_ due to the treacherous sand shoals. The breakers were rough, but it wasn't much of a concern for Merida, who had grown up near the Moray Firth in the Highlands and claimed to have swum it in every sort of weather. How she had then ended up in the Americas as a pirate was likely a tale as interesting as Emma's own, though she hadn't said much about it. She did fight like cats and dogs with the other Scot on the crew: the handsome, black-haired Alexander Macintosh, to the point that Emma had often been inches from ordering them to fuck and be done with it. Still, though, she didn't. Even serving under a female captain, Merida was understandably sensitive about her status as the only other woman. There was at least one other who sailed under the black – Anne Bonny, on Vane's crew – but they were still often regarded as exotic curios or laughable impostors. Pirates might be far more equitable than the average seagoing vessel – sharing plunder, electing and deposing captains and officers by popular vote, never forcing a man to serve against his will, providing pensions for injured or ill members, and giving all crewmembers a say in shipboard business – but that was not enough to override their understandable conviction that it was best and only a job for men.

 _We'll see about that._ Emma waited until Merida had beached the pirogue, swum back out, and been drawn up to the deck, dripping like a drowned rat, before she clapped her on the shoulder, gave her another of the pieces of eight, and retreated to her cabin, shutting and barring the door. Her hour candle had burned through most of its rings, sitting in a puddle of white wax, and it looked to be nearly one o'clock in the morning; less than five hours until sunrise. The mercury promised a clear day to come, and they should make good time to Jamaica. After that. . .

Emma unbuckled her coat and hung it on the back of the door, then unlaced her leather vest, pulled her chemise over her head, pulled it out of her trousers, shucked those off as well, and kicked off her boots. Another advantage to her occupation was that she hadn't had to wear stays in years, nor the pounds and pounds of ungainly clothing required of gentlewomen, but sometimes she missed it. Not the clothes themselves, not really, but what they represented: stability, respectability, order, a real life. Yet she had her boys to think of. There was no room for selfishness. Charles was ten years her junior, born when her parents thought they'd have no more children, and when they were carried off by typhoid not long later, Emma, age twelve, had no choice but to try to get them to the New World; there was only starvation, sickness, and deprivation left for them in England. She managed to convince the port officials that she was older than she was, scrounged and stole to pay their passage, and tended her baby brother alone on the crossing, arriving in Carolina Colony without knowing a single soul. Managed to get herself into the household of Leopold and Eva White, a local gentleman and his wife, as a maid. It wasn't much of a childhood for Charles, but it was better than anything he'd have had in Lincolnshire, and he became rather a pet for the doting Whites; their only daughter was grown and gone from home, and they had never had a son. Charles was a high-spirited, handsome little boy, fair and charming, and Emma did her best not to begrudge him the extra attention.

Such, then, had been their life for five years. Then Neal Cassidy, the son of a rich Virginia plantation owner, had come to the house to do business with White, and quickly took a flattering interest in Emma. She was seventeen, naïve, hungry for the kind of regard from _anyone_ that Charles found so easily, and it had been no labor at all for Cassidy to seduce her. He was a notorious rake, something she of course did not know, and for a whirlwind three months, he plied her with expensive gifts, attention, and adventure. Then just as quickly as he had come, he was gone without a trace, leaving her disgraced, penniless, and pregnant.

The Whites, generous as they had been, were not prepared to countenance such scandal beneath their roof, nor the damage it might do to their reputation in society, and told Emma they were very sorry, gave her a pittance of money, and put her and Charles out. They advised her to marry quickly, so Emma made a desperate search of all the bachelors in Carolina before managing to secure a union with the much older furniture-maker and carpenter, Patrick Walsh. He knew she was with another man's child, but didn't much care, as he wanted a wife to keep house and cook supper. And since the only other option was the whorehouse, Walsh it was.

After her son, Henry, was born, Emma endured four years as Mrs. Walsh before her bloody ape of a husband cut his leg nearly off with a hatchet in his workshop, and bled to death in the sawdust before she could do much more than scream. But he did have some money put aside, which she took after the funeral and packed her brother and son off to Virginia, having some ridiculous notion of finding Neal and inducing him to pay for their maintenance. But he was long gone, and in all of the ironies, she realized that she might have to go back to England to find decent work. Didn't want to rip Charles and Henry away from the colonies, the only home they had ever known, or risk them on the long Atlantic voyage. So she found them a place with a kindly Norwegian woman, Ingrid Arundel, booked passage for London, and, as much as it broke her heart, prepared to leave them behind.

In that, she supposed, she had been quite fortunate. They had hit upon bad weather, blown far off course to the south, and when the clouds cleared, it was to the one sight to chill every sea traveler to the marrow. A ship flying the black, called the _Walrus,_ which pursued, captured, and boarded them after a chase of three days, stripping their holds bare and shooting the captain. Emma had fought as fiercely as any of the men, and finally defeated by a tall blonde giant called Bones; she thought he meant to slay her then and there, but he had been unexpectedly merciful. Informed her that she would be coming with them, as surely she was worth a good deal in ransom, and they intended to profit.

Not wanting to disabuse the pirates of any useful notion considering her worth, and thus their interest in keeping her alive, Emma played along. Went as a captive back to Nassau, and while the crew attempted to find out how much someone would pay for her, she was sent for safekeeping to the house of one Miranda Barlow. She braced herself for a monster, but the woman had been kind. Took the time to talk to her, to learn her tale, to hear of the brother and son she was trying to provide for. Cared for her, with no apparent motive to gain from it, and let her browse through her great collection of books. When Emma asked where on earth she found them all, here on a remote Caribbean island far from any center of literature or art, Miranda had smiled faintly and said that James brought them to her whenever he could.

It was then when Emma discovered that this good woman whom she had almost come to trust, who wore the shadow of some unspoken dark past on her own shoulders, was the lover of the infamous Captain Flint, the fearsome master of the _Walrus,_ whose reappearance she dreaded because it must mean he knew she was worthless and had come to slit her throat. Yet there must also be more to him, to this place, than that, for Miranda seemed to see the clearest of anyone Emma had ever met, and she could not imagine her being deceived even by him. And indeed when Flint reappeared, it was to politely notify her that they had found no one willing to ransom her, and that while a disappointment for them, they were prepared to release her unharmed back to her family. If that was what she wanted.

Emma realized, then, that it wasn't. That she had a chance here, that she might be able to make far more money than she ever dreamed. That she didn't have to go all the way back to England, and leave Charles and Henry behind for good. That regardless of the lurid tales that spread of the men who sailed under the black and lived by their own rules, they were no monsters.

She told Flint that she wanted to stay.

Of course, turning pirate was easier said than done. She would never have survived those early days without them, that was for certain. Flint introduced her to Eleanor Guthrie, gave her opportunities to prove her worth as their liaison on the beach, to gather information, to cross swords with a few local ruffians – all because he could see that Miranda cared for her, and for him, that seemed to be enough. Emma was always driven mad with curiosity as to what could possibly underlie such devotion, but knew better than to ask. He certainly did not share his reasons even with his own crew, who saw in her yet another mysterious side venture of their captain's that the Barlow woman had some possibly nefarious hand in, and as such, there was never any possibility of Emma sailing with the _Walrus._ She knew that she'd have to build her own life and her own place here, from the ground up, and she turned out to be very good at it. Sent part of her takings quarterly to Charles and Henry in Virginia; Charles had gotten a place reading law at the College of William and Mary, and Ingrid was a devoted foster mother to Henry. For their own protection, none of them knew what Emma actually did. They thought she owned a stake in a particularly successful Jamaican sugar plantation, and spent her time helping with its administration. She hadn't seen them since that day she had set foot on the ship, intending to return to England, and doubted she could see them again until she had earned enough to secure their future. It was close now. So close. She could almost taste it.

Emma finished undressing, pulled a shift over her head, and crossed the cabin to the secret panel in the wall, which she sprung open and placed the purse of Spanish silver inside. Even this was more money than she had ever seen in one place, and she carefully locked it away. Plunder might be an even split most of the time, but this hadn't been taken in combat; this was her personal fee. Hence, she had no need to parcel it among the crew, and it would be for the best if Will, Merida, and the Darlings kept their mouths shut about it. Once they did their job with this ship – the HMS _Imperator,_ the name that she'd read off the page before burning it – there would be money to spare. Assuming whoever was offering it lived up to their word.

She took another slow breath, squaring her shoulders and pushing away any lingering doubts, as she climbed into her berth and pulled the covers up. She'd be needed early, and there would be much to do come morning. Staring at the low wooden ceiling, she began to count sheep.

The waves slapped against the side of the hull, rocking faintly in that old, comforting rhythm. The night was dark and expansive and quiet. It felt safe here, in this hidden cove. Like no matter what, she could make it just a short while longer.

Eventually, she slept.

* * *

For the next week, with excess leisure time at his disposal and a burning desire not to set sail again without rooting out whoever on the crew had been selling them out to Gold, Killian had a highly dangerous line to toe. He could hardly pull three hundred and fifty men aside one by one and interrogate them as to any untoward financial arrangements they might have made with the governor on the crossing, not least because technically, there was no actual wrongdoing to charge the culprit with. It might be distasteful, but it wasn't illegal, especially since in strict impartiality, Killian and Liam _were_ the ones breaking (or at least thoroughly bending) the rules here. Besides, conducting a full-scale witch hunt would only give Gold the proof he needed that they were running their ship completely outside any normal jurisdiction or restraint, a law unto itself, and throwing out anyone who did not condone their insubordination. Rather, in fact, like the local species of outlaw, a grim irony that certainly did not escape Killian, but also did not deter him. _We are not hunting that damn ship only to have someone turn round and sing the whole pretty tune to a man who'd like as not try to hang us for getting out of his bloody underhanded design to send us to Jamaica. We are not._

Complicating his dilemma was the fact that since the _Imperator_ was in dry dock at English Harbor, the crew were scattered across the island, and he was not about to comb through every brothel, bawdy-house, reeking winesink, gambling den, or other institution of ill repute in search of them. But since they wouldn't be returning until it was time to sail, and the whole point of this exercise was to identify the malefactor beforehand, if he waited that long it would be too late. Nor was it a task he was capable of carrying out in a fortnight, especially if he was planning on doing anything else like eating or sleeping in the meantime. And as much as he didn't want to admit it, he was already realizing there was only one potential partner for it.

Bloody hell.

"I beg your pardon?" Regina said, stirring her tea and laying the silver spoon delicately on the saucer. "Can I be hearing you correctly? You want me – or rather, my girls – to find out which of your men might be spying on you on the governor's behest, _and_ you don't want me to tell your brother? Trouble in paradise already?"

"I'm the lieutenant." Killian looked at her flatly. "It's my job to deal with such matters so the captain doesn't have to concern himself with them. And besides, I thought you'd have an interest in seeing that hunting the _Blackbird_ went according to plan, given your personal concern with it. You said you knew everything on this island, and we're about to risk quite a bit in hopes you do. In the meantime. . ." He raised an insinuating eyebrow. "How about you prove it? A woman like you, this should be nothing. Why not?"

Regina surveyed him appraisingly, taking a sip of tea. "My, my," she said. "Not even a week in the Caribbean and you're sounding more of a pirate by the day, _Lieutenant._ Whatever happened to simply trusting in men to be honorable? That's what your brother does."

"My brother. . ." Killian trailed off on the words. After a moment he said instead, "Is that what you do, my lady? Trust in men to be honorable?"

She gave a brief, sardonic smile. "No," she said. "As a matter of fact, it's not. But say someone on your crew _is_ selling your secrets to Gold. Even if I was to assist in identifying him, what are you going to do? Reprimand him sternly? Throw him off the ship, thus leaving him even more keen to take up in the governor's employ? Or just. . . stage an accident in some dark alley, one night after he's had a bit much to drink, and make it all go away?"

Killian stared at her. "What? Bloody hell! Murder one of my own crew members in cold blood? Christ, who do you think I am?"

"A man who's willing to do whatever it takes?" Regina suggested. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here. You've made it no secret that you can't stand me."

"I don't trust you, that's all. And as I said, you might want to give me a reason to."

"If this is some tiresome attempt to frighten me away from your brother, you're wasting your time. I haven't even seen him since last the two of you called, and I have far better uses of _my_ time than to pine over some self-righteous Navy captain who isn't making me any money. The sooner the two of you are out to sea, the better. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind, and would like to enjoy an evening at the officers' rate?"

"I don't have the time _or_ the patience for this. Find me the man. Then I'll tell Liam, and we'll decide what to do. If you want the _Blackbird_ destroyed, this is not negotiable."

Regina eyed him evilly, all but the barest traces of feigned courtesy gone from her face, until she smiled, which was not discernibly more comforting. "Very well," she said. "You drive a hard bargain, Lieutenant. I shudder to think what _two_ weeks in this place might do to you."

"It can't make me any worse than you." Killian clapped on his hat, and pivoted toward the door, not intending to give her the satisfaction of the last word. "Good day, mistress."

Outside in the sun, jostled among the usual human tide rush, he strode angrily down the street, barely bothering to glance where he was going. It wasn't that he considered himself too good to be using whores for information; God Almighty, no. He knew the lie was that everyone thought him a gentleman when he wasn't. It was impossible to get much lower birth than his, but it was manners and decorum, comportment and chivalry, that passed oneself off as such, and he was, if nothing else, a keen observer of human nature. So he had gotten quite skilled at acting as one, and perhaps what troubled him (all right, what _was_ troubling him) was that Regina was holding up a mirror to that masquerade, reminding him what a hollow and pitiable lie it was, and would always be, no matter how hard he tried. Of course he was no better than scum.

Still stewing, Killian reached the bottom of the hill and glanced side to side, wondering where he could go next. Liam was buried in paperwork back at their lodgings; every requisition had to be drafted, signed, copied, and submitted in triplicate; ledgers and logs updated; reports filed and dispatches composed. Killian supposed he should hie back and assist, but if he walked in with a face like thunder, Liam would know something was wrong, and until he had a concrete suspect to present, he didn't want to distract him with this. Or bring Regina into it.

After a moment, Killian began to wander along the waterfront, wondering if there was any way to make a return trip to English Harbor and search the Navy records for Captain Colter and the _Valiant._ It was not likely to tell him anything apart from the fact that the bastard was dead, which would not be very useful, but he couldn't rid himself of the hunch that if he just tugged that thread a bit harder, a plethora of possible answers might fall at his feet. Robin had said that it was sunk three years ago, and if Regina had already sent three or four captains after the _Blackbird_ in retaliation, that equated to at least one a year. Even in a place as dangerous as this, three ships lost on the same assignment in a row would attract attention, so surely they hadn't _all_ drowned or been destroyed as well. He had not forgotten that Regina had not answered Liam's question about what had happened to their predecessors. Arranged for them to meet convenient ends in dark alley brawls too? She had certainly suggested that option for him without turning a hair. But no, surely. The Admiralty would likewise have noticed if its officers kept dropping dead in similar circumstances, and Regina relied on the Navy for her livelihood. She wouldn't put herself out of business that way; if nothing else, he sensed a ruthless and abiding self-interest that, while it might be cruel, wasn't stupid. Living, paying customers were always far preferable to dead, incriminating ones. Even if –

"Lieutenant Jones. I had been hoping to run across you."

Jolted out of his reverie, Killian skidded to a stop, glanced up – and experienced a strong desire to hang all instances of gentlemanly protocol, imagined or otherwise, just for once. Captain James Nolan, out of formal dress and with a misleadingly genial expression on his face, was sauntering toward him, as if it was pure coincidence that they had crossed paths (it wasn't _that_ large of an island, but why wasn't he sitting in his bloody fort, making himself someone else's problem?) "As I said," he went on, "I did want to see you. I feel as if we got off rather on the wrong foot the other day, at the governor's mansion. Perhaps we can amend that?"

Killian, who felt as if they had gotten off on exactly the foot they were meant to, was in no hurry to provide assistance in this comically doomed endeavor. He crossed his arms instead. "I'm surprised to see you so far from your garrison, Captain."

"And you so far from your ship?" Nolan cocked a blonde eyebrow. "Then again, there's not much for either of us to do in said locations, so why can't we recreate a bit? Like gentlemen. I could show you all sorts of things to do in this reeking backwater – though it does have a few modest pleasures. I don't suppose you've made the acquaintance of Mistress Mills yet?"

Killian managed to keep his face inscrutable. "I don't believe so, no."

"Pity. Her establishment is all that keeps life here tolerable." James sighed. "Well, you'll want to look into that. But in any event, I didn't come out here solely to palaver about whores. Stroll with me, won't you?"

Since he could see no way to reject this invitation short of outright stabbing the man (which would be briefly satisfactory and then very, very terrible) Killian gave a mumpish grunt and consented to do so, if walking stiffly five paces away from him counted as strolling. Seeing this, Nolan said, "You're a prickly one, aren't you? This would be so much easier if we were friends."

Killian was about to flash back that he had no interest in being friends, before he considered what Liam would say if he heard that after ordering him to keep his mouth shut, and stay out of trouble until they set sail again, he had then proceeded to irreparably alienate a man both of them knew could be dangerous. He forced his mouth into something superficially resembling a smile instead. "Apologies, Captain. There's quite a lot of work to be done, just now."

"Always best accomplished by running away from it down the beach." James grinned. "Not that I blame you, it's much more agreeable out here. You might as well enjoy it, you'll be gone soon enough, won't you? To Jamaica?"

Unsure at how far Commodore Hamilton had proceeded at changing their assignment, and certainly not willing to give this bastard any juicy tidbits, Killian said only, "Aye."

"That's good to know, because you see. . ." James came to a halt in the sand, abruptly enough that Killian almost ran into him. "I had heard a rather different plan for your intentions. Something about. . . oh, a pirate ship, wasn't it? The _Blackbird?"_

Killian tensed. "What would make you think that?"

"Please. We can prance around each other like horses on show, or we can be honest. I know quite well what you're up to. And don't worry, I haven't come here to stop you. The pirates need to be destroyed, and you to test your mettle. I'm just by to make sure it'll be worth my while."

"Worth _your_ while?"

"Of course. What with the generous rates we're already giving you on the refit, and all the other hospitality we've shown, it's only the polite thing to do, isn't it? And I'm not going to be unreasonable. Say. . . twenty percent of all cargo and portable assets taken off the ship, and thirty percent of any coins, jewels, or precious metals. Oh, and you'll also mention how very useful I was, personally, in providing intelligence and support for the undertaking. You see?"

"Aye," Killian said. "I do. You want half the credit and a cumulative half of the take, while doing none of the work. And yet you have the nerve to call other men pirates."

James blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before the smirk returned. "Do you speak in such a fashion to all your superiors? I daresay I can see why none of them like you. It's plain you still don't understand how things work here, Lieutenant, so consider this a friendly introduction before anyone had to get hurt. It's very simple. You want to stay out of trouble with the governor and the Admiralty. I want a promotion off this miserable cesspool and back to civilization. We can work together like officers and gentlemen to achieve our objectives, which frankly I thought would have been the obvious course, or you can make things very difficult on yourself."

Killian chewed his tongue, restraining himself mightily from an injudicious outburst, even as he fought against a pair of competing impulses: one, to wonder how on earth this place still existed, when it should have been scoured off the face of it with brimstone from the heavens, and two, a dangerous temptation to accept Nolan's bargain. The bastard was a walking, talking, farting arse, but if they could just get rid of him by paying him. . . that would be an easier escape than the rest of their opponents. But to make this kind of dishonorable arrangement behind Liam's back, when he was already withholding the information that he'd sent Regina to hunt for the sneak on the crew. . . he was keeping more secrets from his brother than he was comfortable with, and this would definitely not be a good one to spring on him at the end of the venture. Especially if they failed, and had to return empty-handed. Somehow, he didn't think Captain James Nolan would accept "we tried our best" as a valid reason for disappointment.

"It's a bold proposition," he said at last. "And you seem bloody sure that I'll agree to it. But let us imagine, for the sake of argument, that I didn't. You'll – what? Destroy me?"

James laughed. "What? Why would anyone bother to do that? You're no man on your own. No threat. You're just a stooge and latchkey for your brother. Nobody would bother attacking _you_ – your fate, good or bad, would be just a consequence of his. I doubt you could manage two days without him. You'd fold like a bad hand of whist and lash out at anything that moved. So no, Lieutenant. I wouldn't do a thing to you. But I can't guarantee what might happen to him."

"Lay a finger on Liam, and I'll kill you."

"Oho." James raised both eyebrows. "Such a pity we didn't have a lawyer standing by to make note of that. I must say, Jones, you confound me. Any other of your ilk would have agreed to my bargain and counted it someone else's money well spent, but you keep standing there and hissing like a tomcat, as well as making explicit intimations of grievous bodily harm to an officer of His Majesty's Army, _and_ your comrade in arms on this posting. You're not doing anything to convince me you're one to be trusted, you know."

"You just threatened my brother, you rank, backstabbing, indolent pissbucket. What did you expect me to do, smile and shake your greased palm?"

James's grin widened. "You know, I'm sorely tempted to take you in and unleash you on a few of my more uptight superiors. They might find your honesty diverting, if it didn't kill them first. Anyway, relax, your brother is safe. I said I wanted a promotion, not a court-martial. Agree, and I'll keep Lord bloody Gold off your scent while you're hunting the ship. As I said. So much we can do for each other." He shrugged, cleaning his fingernails with a small instrument that looked like a torture device. "Unless you have to run off and get permission from your master first?"

Killian hesitated. He didn't want to do it this way, didn't want to get in still further over his head (to whatever extent that was bloody possible anymore), didn't want to acquire yet another disreputable so-called ally. But it would be a bit rich of him to think that he was somehow exempt from the carousel of bribery and corruption that seemed to be the only way any business got done in this godforsaken place. As well, he was still bridling at James' taunting, that he was no man but just an afterthought, withering in Liam's shadow. They did need Gold distracted, that could not be denied, and it wasn't as if they were even spending their own money on it, seeing as that was in short supply to begin with. It was just. . . he couldn't help it, he didn't like it, nobody had bloody asked for Captain bloody Nolan's bloody interference to start with, he had them over a barrel for a significant cut of spoils that might turn out to be a few casks of cheap whale oil and copper pennies; there was no way to be certain that the pirates would just happen to be sailing around with fantastic wealth in their hold, after all. No wonder all these experienced swindlers were swarming on him and Liam; they made almost ludicrously easy bait. _If we don't learn how the game is played, they'll pick us clean and leave us out to rot._ That, then, was considerable incentive. In the meantime. . .

"Very well," he said, and gritted his teeth. "You have a deal."

Enjoyment of the day well and bloody ruined after that, Killian made a few more aimless circuits of the beach before finally giving up, tempted to find a tavern and have just one drink to console himself, but considering how much damage he might potentially have already done, he didn't suppose that was the wisest course of action. He kept attempting to come up with ways to tell this to Liam, but they all sounded feeble, and he didn't want to be more of a distraction. Maybe mention it offhandedly, if Liam brought up the subject of Gold knowing what they were up to, promise him that he'd got it handled. Just the price of doing business around here, it seemed.

Heavy clouds were starting to close over the sun, betokening the arrival of the daily rainstorm, and Killian just managed to outrace it back before it broke, roaring on the roof and pounding the mud of the street into rivulets. He went upstairs to find a very cross Liam still immured at the desk, on the verge of pulling his hair out in frustration over a stack of half-finished dispatches. "Bloody hell, how many times do the inbred halfwits at the Admiralty need me to say that the voyage was a success and we're preparing for a new assignment? Does it strain their constitution to pick up the same report I've written the last dozen times, in case the other fellow spilled some caviar on it? If I drew a middle finger on each, do you think that would get their attention?"

"I'd just draw a bare arse," Killian said, shucking off his wet coat and hanging it on the nail. "Maybe with a French flag on it. Might as well commit to really offending them."

Liam snorted a laugh. "You shouldn't tempt me, little brother. Where have you been?"

"Out," Killian said, untying his cravat. "Just seeing to a few things for us. I figured you'd be well occupied. Any assistance I can offer?"

Liam eyed him curiously, putting the quill back in the inkwell and evidently deciding that the Admiralty and its bloody dispatches could go have intimate relations with themselves for the time being. "What sorts of things?"

"Making certain there will be no distractions when we set sail. It's seen to." He attempted a reassuring smile. "Nothing you need to worry about."

Liam paused, then nodded, pushing his chair back and prowling a restorative lap around the room, pushing the window open to let in a waft of cool, wet air. "Very well, Killian, I trust you. The refit looks to be proceeding on schedule, so we should be sailing the Saturday next if Commodore Hamilton can confirm our orders. I've acquired as many charts of the area as I can, on Locksley's recommendation, so if you've no other plans for the evening, we might as well start cracking on them. I'll have supper sent up."

"I suppose." Killian made his way to the heap of maps on the bed, sitting down and starting to sift through them. One thing he had discovered to his own surprise, since joining the Navy, was that he had a talent for navigation, for the finicky mathematical calculations of stars by a sextant, taking headings even in fog or the dead of night, reckoning the angle and degree of sun and shadow without sundial or compass. Indeed, part of the reason for the speed of their crossing was because he had not made a single mistake in plotting their course, and since it was so rare that he allowed himself to think he was good at anything, he now feared being unmasked as a fraud, whose previous successes were attributable to luck, not skill. He had a sudden flash of memory back to when Liam had taught him how to read, write, and cipher, late at night belowdecks on the _Pandora,_ the ship where they'd first been sold to the captain. Him sleepy and hungry and whining that he didn't want to, while Liam stubbornly insisted that he would, he must, that one day they would have a better life than this and he would need to know how. Stole bits of paper and parchment so Killian could practice, and one day (he remembered it as the best of his young life) a book, a real book, _The Travels of Sir John Mandeville._ Lost in the fantastical tales of a medieval knight-errant who claimed to have crossed the whole world, to have seen countless wonders and strange creatures and far-off lands, Killian imagined himself doing the same, one day. Had kept on hoping for the chance, feeding that small spark of hope that so often threatened to go out. Then one of the crew members caught him with it, and threw it over the side. He leapt at the man's throat, and they thrashed him senseless; Liam hadn't been able to get in the way and take the beating for him, that time. It was the thought of this, and his own guilty conscience, that made him blurt out, "Liam, you know I love you, don't you?"

Liam gave him an odd look. "Of course, little brother. I love you too. Why, what did you do?"

"Nothing." Killian shifted uncomfortably. "I'll get through as many of these as I can. You look like you could use a respite."

"I'll manage." Liam finished his pacing, sat back down, and picked up the quill again. "Otherwise I'll still have these waiting for me in the morning, and I can think of no surer way to ruin the day. Or – what is it?"

The knock on the door had surprised both of them, and Killian shot, perhaps too quickly, to his feet. "I'll get that." Doing so, he crossed the floor, hoping it wasn't anyone ranking as neither of them were in proper uniform. It was still raining outside, he hoped they hadn't had to come far –

He pulled the door open a crack, and felt his stomach lurch unpleasantly. No, she hadn't had to come far at all, and he was not sure what to make of seeing her this quickly. "Mis – Mistress."

Liam looked up, saw who it was, and immediately attempted to make something tidier of his disreputable hair. "Mistress Mills? I don't believe either of us were expecting you here." He looked vaguely suspicious, as if wondering if she was so desperate to get them to join the club as to resort to making house calls, but pushed back his chair and stood. "Can we help you?"

"As a matter of fact, I was looking for your brother." Regina smiled, sweetly as a poisoned apple, at Killian. "I wouldn't want to distract you, of course."

Liam shot them both a somewhat confused look, as he too had been perfectly well aware that they didn't much like each other, and Killian stepped out into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him and throwing the madam an accusing look. "Aren't you supposed to be discreet?" he hissed, keeping his voice down; he wanted neither his brother nor the rest of the house to hear it. "Why on earth did you come yourself? Couldn't send a girl on your behalf?"

"What's wrong, Lieutenant? Afraid I'd get you into trouble?" She was clearly enjoying his discomfort, to the point where he instantly suspected she had done so for exactly this reason; see what pots she could stir, what questions Liam might start asking as well, or if he was the type to be jealous. "I thought you wanted your answers?"

"I do." Killian fervently wished for this bloody day to be over, so people would stop popping up and ferociously vexing him. "Well?"

Regina shrugged. "As you said, it wasn't difficult at all. Barely an hour of looking. Have you decided what you're going to do when I tell you?"

"Aye," Killian lied. "So get on with it."

"Very well." She leaned against the wall. "I do trust this won't disrupt any plans for leaving on schedule, or your general preparations? There is that saying, you know. _Quid pro quo."_

"Believe me. I've grasped the bloody concept."

"I suppose you have." She looked amused again; likely she already knew exactly about the little extortion racket James Nolan had run on him this afternoon. "Well then. The sneak – it's your carpenter. A man named August Booth."


	4. IV

**-IV-**

The _Blackbird_ set sail at daybreak, on the back of a wind hard enough to blow white froth off the breakers and make Emma wary of raising full canvas this close to shore and the treacherous sand shoals. The _Blackbird_ was a brigantine, which meant she carried two masts, square-rigged on the fore and the mainsail gaff-rigged on the aft, along with two foresails on the spar, and Emma ordered all the topsails to be kept reefed and extra care taken with the main, as that broad triangular sheet was the one that could catch the wind and send them sprinting (which, if it was toward land if the direction changed abruptly, would obviously be something of a problem). She had sailed both the Turks Passage and its neighbor to the east, the Mouchoir Passage, often enough to be familiar with the tricks of these waters, and indeed their course was set for the latter, as there was a prevailing current in the Mouchoir that would deliver them straight to Jamaica, even if there was no wind. That at least did not appear to be a problem. The mercury had dropped from its initial promising reading last night, and while the horizon was still clear, Emma had a feeling this might get interesting. But Cockburn Town wasn't a place to ride out a storm, and besides, she had enough devil-may-care in her to feel confident about her odds of outrunning it. Dawdling would do them no good at all, and only allow July to arrive with the height of summer hurricane season. They'd take their chances.

As the Turks disappeared swiftly astern, there came that moment that every pirate lived for – when it was just you and your ship pointed into open waters, not another vessel visible anywhere, the sun hot and the wind strong, master (or in her case, mistress) of your own destiny with infinite possibilities for adventure and profit ahead. Felix, in his capacity as quartermaster, was manning the helm, as Will kept a sharp eye on the monkeys in the rigging. When they were fully clear of the shoals, Emma nodded to him and he bellowed, "Let 'er fly, lads!"

There was a scramble as the crews on each topsail let them loose, and Emma caught a glimpse of Merida and Macintosh paying out the mainsail without even an intercessory smart remark exchanged, which had to be a first. She reckoned their speed at close to seven knots, which would put them in Mouchoir waters within a few hours – not bad, considering they had to sail more or less diagonally against the trades in order to get east to head west, which made much more sense in practice than it did in theory. But if they were doing this well even in a bit of a headwind, they might make it to Jamaica in only four or five days. Every amount of extra time was an advantage, hence another reason Emma had elected not to sit on her hands in the Turks.

She stole a glance over her shoulder, making sure the crew had descended safely and were otherwise absorbed. She had the sense that most of them had been happy to accept her speech this morning, that they were going to take a strong prize that, if successful, would instantly establish them as a premier force to be reckoned with in the crowded field of Caribbean piracy. She'd warned them it wouldn't be easy, but they were no cowards, and they were game for the challenge. Whether that would hold when they saw it was a fully armed Royal Navy third-rater, well. . . that was the trick of the whole thing. Ambushing it at an extreme operational disadvantage (i.e. anywhere the sixty guns couldn't play a part) would help, but how much?

The one who wanted more information was, of course, predictable. As he was steering them through the waves – seven or ten feet with a bit of a break on them, not bad, but enough to keep the deck at a constant low-level roll – Felix jerked his head at her, as if wanting her to come by for a question of navigational miscellany. She hesitated, but it never did to show anything that could be interpreted as weakness or fear to face the men, and crossed, as smoothly as was possible, to the helm. "Mr. Peterson?"

"Captain." In his mouth, it always sounded half an insult. He was a head taller than her, with a thatch of ragged blonde hair and a long scar across his face, one of the men who might appreciate the freedom and spirit of enterprise that the pirates' republic offered, but who really just liked beating up other people and taking things that did not belong to him. As long as he did it for her, Emma had to admit it was a useful character trait, but she also knew that Felix viewed this very much as a mere stepping stone on his way to his own career as a pirate captain, and if that came on this ship at the expense of its current captain, he would certainly not be shedding a single tear as they dumped her body overboard sewed up in sailcloth. He had contrived to ingratiate himself among the crew, making himself respected and popular and feared and hence elected quartermaster, so she couldn't throw him off without risking serious blowback, and she knew as well that an eventual reckoning would be coming. Perhaps if she could get him killed in the raid on the _Imperator. . ._ make sure the blood was on the Navy's hands, not hers. Nobody could fault her if Felix were valiantly felled in action, could they? Make him a martyr for the cause, and out of her bloody way. The idea had merit.

"Can I help you?" she said aloud. "Do you think the wind will hold?"

"Seems so." Felix smiled. "But I had a different question. What – or who – are we really hunting? I saw that coin you gave the Dunbroch chit. The Spaniards involved, are they?"

"No idea. We all pay in pieces of eight when we can get our hands on them, it means nothing. I've told you and the others, you'll know everything in due course."

"See, that's what concerns me. Due course." Felix enunciated the words in a mockery of her own still-English accent; he had the rougher, provincial drawl of the colonies. "If this was another prize, I think you'd have told us by now, but you haven't. Almost as if you're keeping it secret a'purpose, leading us into some sort of trap. Not fair to the men, now is it? Especially if the danger might be far more than you're letting on, and they could all end up dead."

"I assure you, I have no interest in captaining a ship full of skeletons. It is entirely to my interest to have a living crew and one that stays that way, so your suspicions are both presumptuous and unjustified. Stay the course and do as I say, and we'll all be rich. Including you."

"That's right, I forgot. You learned from Flint." Felix studied her with a half-smile. "I know a man on the _Walrus,_ he says the captain never tells them a blasted thing either. If his whore hadn't taken a liking to you, you'd be nobody, so small wonder all you know how to do is – "

"Do not," Emma said, very levelly, "call Mrs. Barlow a whore in my hearing, ever again. I will only warn you once."

"It's the fact of the matter." Felix took them two notches starboard, as Will shot a glance at them from the foredeck and Emma shook her head; she appreciated her first mate's concern, but she did not want a man hastening in here to rescue her, as that would only confirm Felix's notion that she couldn't stand up to him on her own. "If I wanted to slander the woman, you'd know it. And surely it's no slander either to note that it was only because of them that you didn't get your throat cut and thrown in a ditch?"

Emma's hand, hidden by the fall of her coat, moved to the hilt of her sword. "Oh, by all means. Do continue on with your opinions on Captain Flint's shortcomings, as well as my own. When we return to Nassau, I'll be certain to share them with him. We'll have a good laugh."

That caught Felix on the hop, as well as reminding him that while he might not be afraid of her, only a total idiot would make an enemy of Flint, and Emma had survived her first few years by trading on the fact that she was under his protection and he would deal smartly with anyone who gave her trouble. He would, however, never have wasted his time if Emma hadn't proven that she could take care of herself; if she was feeble or incompetent, he wouldn't have lifted a finger to help her. She hadn't gotten her command because of Flint, and she certainly was not going to lose it on any account of his either. Nor was she about to ask another captain to solve problems on her crew, or to involve an outsider in privy shipboard business. But if worse came to absolute worst, Flint _would_ run Felix through without turning a hair – if not necessarily for Emma, certainly because Felix had insulted him and Miranda – and both Felix and Emma knew it.

This being the case, the insolent quartermaster deflated slightly. "Apologies, Captain. I've let my tongue run too freely, and I'll ask your forgiveness."

"Yes, you have." Emma gave him a sweet smile. "See that it doesn't happen again."

With Felix, for the moment, disposed of, she descended the stairs to the main deck, purposefully making a long circuit as if to show that any other man who had questions could approach her if they dared, but no one did. She glanced over the rail; by the color of the ocean, they were in the approach to the passage, which shared a name with the shallow coral reefs, the Mouchoir Bank, on the far side. Greenhorn captains coming in too fast and too sure of the deep waters of the passage could tear their hulls out on one of them, and Emma had done some good hunting of those hapless fools before. Not now, though. She just wanted to catch the current before nightfall, and after that, assuming the weather held up, the biggest concern was slipping through the narrow neck of ocean between Cuba and Hispaniola: the Windward Passage, the route every ship from the Spanish Main and the inner Caribbean Sea had to follow to reach favorable winds and open waters east to Europe. Cuba was the seat of the Spanish Navy in the New World, heavily patrolled since its treasure fleet left from Havana every year, and since they would be passing on the Saint-Domingue side of Hispaniola, better known as the place they had stolen the _Blackbird_ from in the first place, some French frigate could conceivably recognize their old ship and decide either to avenge her loss or send her to the bottom of the ocean. The other way around, southeast between Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, took more time, lost them the advantage of the current, and put them dangerously close to the nearly straight-line westward route between the Royal Navy's base on Antigua and its frequent traffic to Jamaica. They wanted to pick off the _Imperator_ by herself, not sail straight into the teeth of the whole bloody convoy.

Seeing that the situation was under control, even if it promised to be a bumpy ride all the way out, Emma returned to her cabin, intending to comb through the maps that had come with the ship from her days as _La Princesse._ Since the chief joy and delight of being French, apart from cheese, was to torment and harass the English, it was possible they had marked some opportune spot for an ambush, some knowledge of the corridors the Royal Navy commonly used; Emma had found such hidden gems in the ledgers before. She had also kept the ship's old flag, the naval ensign of France: a white cross on a blue field, emblazoned with the royal coat of arms. Such deceptive upholstery allowed them to pass from afar as having legitimate business, though nobody would have taken them for French sailors close to. The flag was also rather dated, as most French ships these days used a plain white banner (in the jeering opinion of Englishmen, it was at least honest of them to fly it at the start of the battle, since they were certain to be flying it at the end) but as pirates categorically refused to sail under a white flag even in the name of subterfuge, the older one it was. When it came time to show their true colors and strike fear in the hearts of the prize, they used a black flag with a white swan and skull on it, Emma's personal emblem. That and the solid red, the _jolie rouge,_ which signaled to the other ship that they could expect no quarter. That was not their way, as they almost never killed captive crews and treated them with courtesy after the taking of spoils was through. But it was excellent for inspiring terror, and that did half the work.

Emma spent a few hours searching through the maps, making a note of anything that looked useful, until she had to get up to light a lantern even though it was still the middle of the day, glanced out the window, and frowned. The previous blue to the east, from the direction of the open Atlantic, had turned into a glowering grey wall, pierced with veils of sky-to-sea rain. As of yet it was still loosely gathered, could blow apart in an hour or two with nothing more than a furtherly freshened breeze for their trouble, but it would bear close watching. She threw back on her hat and jacket and emerged onto the deck, which was sheened with a fine mist, to assess the situation. The wind was starting to keen through the lines, the topsails running almost taut, and she ordered them taken in again, having to raise her voice considerably to be heard. That slowed some of their pell-mell drive before the wind; they were now squarely astride the westerlies, as well as the current, and that at least gave them a good chance of widening the distance between them and that unfriendly horizon. Still, the clouds were catching up swiftly, and the strip of sky visible beneath the onrushing thunderhead was rapidly turning a bruised, ominous violet.

"Prepare for weather," Emma ordered, though she didn't need to; they all had eyes in their heads, after all. Still, now it could be officially done: closing gun ports, securing cannons and any other heavy loads they didn't want abruptly shifted, slacking or reefing the rest of the nonessential canvas, locking the capstan so the anchors couldn't jolt loose and drop, and getting the crew below as soon as they had finished their tasks. She could see the leading edge of the rain coming up behind them almost as fast as a galloping horse, pocking the sea with heavy marble-sized droplets, and in the next minute, it hit them full-on. Emma staggered as Will caught her arm, balancing them on the tilting, slippery deck. It was plainly dangerous to be out here without being tied down; Felix had already lashed himself to the wheel, not looking any more concerned than he had when it was fine and fair; whatever his character deficiencies, he had gotten them through every kind of weather, and this was no worse than most squalls. Seeing the management of the vessel was under control, Emma allowed Will to slide her up to the cabin door, pull it open, and both of them made it inside, slamming it shut and barring it as the rain howled and pounded. The tops of waves heaved past the windows, trailing ribbons of frothing spume.

"Bloody hell," Will said, wiping salt out of his eyes. "Where did _that_ come from? Me nose usually itches when there's goin' to be a gale, I should have noticed this one brewin'."

"Your nose also itches plenty of times when there hasn't been," Emma pointed out dryly; Will had a much higher opinion of his weather-predicting skills than she did. Behind her, the lantern she had just recently lit was swinging and guttering madly, so she rescued it and moved it to a peg on the wall. As she turned back, however, she saw him looking with a frown at the charts and notes she had left out, and made a lunge toward the table. "I was just – putting those away."

"You're lookin' for spots to ambush the Royal Navy?" Will raised an eyebrow at her. "Just in case there wasn't enough adventure on this voyage already, was that it?"

"I. . . not exactly." Emma hesitated. If she couldn't share the news even with her first mate, that might be a hint that she herself harbored doubts about whether they could pull this off, and had in fact gotten them in over their head, just as Felix was slyly insinuating. So, as succinctly and understatedly as possible, she explained her meeting with the most-likely Spanish agent in the tavern, what he wanted them to do, and what he had informed her about the best way to achieve said objective. Will looked in turn dumbfounded, skeptical, and then outright alarmed, until she could tell by the end of the speech that she had done nothing to convince him either of its feasibility or its advisability, and he wasn't one for charting the safe and conservative course; almost always voted for taking the risk if it was a choice between a bit of danger or sailing away empty-handed. To see him balking at this wasn't what she'd expected.

"I know," she said, to his continuing dubious expression. "It doesn't sound like our usual ventures. But if I didn't think we could do this, I wouldn't have agreed. It's a tall order, but – "

"Think the word I'd choose is _suicide."_ Will was still shaking his head. "There has to be some nice fat slow merchanter somewhere with a hold of trade goods, if all we need is quick cash. Or there's still a few of the gemstones off that Dutch sloop a few months back. Not sailing directly into the damn lion's den and yanking the biggest one's tail. There's something not right here. Someone's settin' you up. I don't like this one bit."

"It's not just money. It's about our _names._ About who we are, getting us to where we can finally recruit without having to go begging. We could take all the merchants and small-time traders we want, it won't make any difference. The only way to make the _Blackbird_ a pirate crew that men want to sail on, that means something, is to do this."

"Aye, if by that you mean this will get all of us killed, and our replacements can take over an empty ship and swear never to repeat our mistakes. You don't have to do this. Flint and Miss Guthrie, they'll – "

"Flint and Eleanor won't be around forever," Emma interrupted. "And I learned a long time ago not to put my fate in someone else's hands."

"Maybe so, but something about it still don't smell right. If this captain's so bad, how come we haven't heard of him? When the _Scarborough_ arrived, we knew everything about it within the fortnight. Even if this is the man's first posting to the Indies, we would have whispers of him from the mainland or from London. You're tellin' me someone who's bad even by the Navy's standards is comin' to Jamaica, someone dangerous enough that Spain supposedly wants him out of the way at any price, and we don't know _anything_ about him? Not even his _name?"_

Emma opened her mouth, discovered no immediate response, and shut it. Then after a moment she said, "Even Nassau is not some great all-seeing, all-knowing oracle at Delphi. We've been ignorant of things before, we could have been again."

"Sorry, Captain, but that sounds more an excuse, not an explanation." Will regarded her bluntly. "One thing we all hate, it's the bloody Navy. If this bastard was rollin' into town with some lurid tale, the street would have been chewin' it over and talkin' of nothing else for weeks."

"We've been away from New Providence for a while," Emma countered. "It could have easily been kept a secret."

"If you say so," Will allowed, still clearly unconvinced. "But I have to warn you, I can't imagine the men havin' a different reaction than me. And if Felix gets wind of this – "

"Well, you're the only person I've told, so if he did, I'd know it came from you, wouldn't I?" Emma raised an eyebrow of her own. "And since I also know you wouldn't betray me, let us safely rule out that possibility. What does it matter who really wants this? If we do this, and they pay for it, and we reap the rewards, it could be King Arthur reborn for all I care."

Will kept looking at her, frowning. "Really? Doesn't matter to you at all? Well, it matters a damn sight to me, and anyone else who would actually have to pull off this mad scheme you've cooked up. They don't give pirates medals for tryin'. They hang 'em."

"I know what they do to pirates." Emma allowed her voice to show clearly that she did not need this explained to her, as even a man who respected and liked her, such as Will, could tend to do. "And right now, we're in about as dangerous a situation as it's possible to be. Pirates, so we have no friends on the right side of the law, but pirates who are disregarded and disrespected by the rest of them. We don't come here because we have some other skill or some other home to turn back to! We get what we take, and we take it by the sword! That is why they hang us!"

Will blinked, holding up his hands. "Right then. Maybe there's a miracle, and we can actually do this. But just think about what I've said, please? I know you're no idiot, Captain. I'll sail wherever you lead. But if that's straight down the mouth of hell, you and I both know there bloody well better be a damned good reason for it."

"I know." Emma studied her faint reflection in the rain-lashed window. "You're dismissed."

Will paused, then nodded. Unbarred and opened the door, letting in a skirl of wind and water, and showed himself out.

* * *

The storm did not break before nightfall, screaming and raging well into the hours of darkness, sheets of spray blowing horizontally across the deck as they toiled in the troughs of waves like tall green mountains. Here and odd it would ease off, nearly enough to make Emma think the worst was over, before changing its mind and returning with a vengeance. She was fairly sure it wasn't a hurricane, just a bad thunderstorm, but that was no particular consolation. Fortunately she wasn't prone to seasickness in the normal course of things, but the acrobatic tumbles being performed every few minutes were testing that resilience considerably, and she had given up on trying to put things back in order, as they'd just fall out of it again when the next wave hit. The _Blackbird_ was stout, well-built, well-chinked, and recently careened, and they weren't riding as if they had taken on a critical amount of water, but things must still be quite damp belowdecks. Every so often the blackness would be starkly illuminated by jagged towers of lightning, enough for her to see that they hadn't lost anything vital, but a sail had torn loose on the foremast and was flapping raggedly against the wind, dragging the rest of the sheets askew with it and putting extra pressure on the beam. She would have to keep an eye on that. The sail should be a comparatively easy fix once the wind and rain let up, but a snapped mast would be much worse.

She tried to sleep, lying with her eyes closed and doing her best to imagine that the tumult was actually a soothing rocking. And she must have indeed dropped under, because the light was grey when she opened her eyes again and some of the racket had subsided; they were still pitching, but not in the way that threatened imminent capsize, and when she stumbled to the window and peered out, there was a distant flush of pink on the misty eastern horizon. The foremast had made it through the night, and the seas were down, though the deck was running off a foot of water with each rise and fall. She certainly did not want to hex anything, but this time it did look to be over.

Expelling a hearty breath of relief, Emma got dressed and strode out into the dawn drizzle, discovering Macintosh tied to the wheel and dozing off; he must have relieved Felix sometime in the night. He was another one who had been loudly disparaging of the idea that a woman could ever command a pirate ship, but he had slowly come around, and he snorted and woke with a start when she shook him. "Aye, Captain? Worst o' it seems to have passed, I've no idea how far it blew us, though. Thought I saw land off to port, you think it's Hispaniola?"

Emma pulled out her spyglass and scanned the horizon in the indicated direction, but couldn't tell if it was indeed land or just a low-lying cloud. "Hard to say. We'll need more sun to take a reckoning. Any damage to report?"

"One of the guns broke loose and made a bit of a stramash, but the lads got it tied down. Broke its mount, though, so we're running a gun short on starboard." Macintosh scratched his chin. "Had to get a bucket brigade started later in the night, but I dinna think we'll sink, no."

Emma frowned. The loss of a gun was not good, as they couldn't fashion a permanent replacement mount until they got ashore, but perhaps something temporary could be tricked up. The rest of the crew was starting to emerge from below, looking pale, wet, and tired, and Emma organized rotations for them to eat, sleep, and start going over the ship in search of any major or minor repairs. She herself went below, having to wade through two feet of water in the forward bulkhead, and joined the first shift on bailing duty. They had reduced it to manageable, ankle-deep level when there was a shout from above. "Captain! Better get up here!"

Surprised, Emma dropped her bucket, wiping her cold, chafed hands on her trousers as she hurried up the ladder to the deck. The men were congregated at the railing, pointing at something – or rather some _one –_ in the water. He was clinging to a bit of broken wood, and was waving at them furiously in clear hopes that they would see fit to throw him a line. Other scattered debris in the waves suggested that there might have been a ship here, or at least nearby, that no longer was. It was impossible to tell how long the survivor had been in the water, or how far he had drifted; Emma glanced around quickly at the surrounding sea, but saw no other signs of life. He shouted again, trying to swim closer, and she ordered, "Pull him aboard."

A coil of rope was fetched, tossed out into the chop, and the survivor, after several failed attempts, finally got hold of it just in time, as the current was about to carry him out of range. The men heaved, getting him close enough to be able to grab hold of the side, and after a few minutes of intense exertion on everyone's parts, his head appeared over the railing and they were able to drag him onto the deck as if reeling up a fishing net. He sprawled out, coughing and exhausted, as the pirates gathered around in both curiosity and suspicion. Finally he sat up slowly, wiped his mouth, and said hoarsely, "Thank 'ee, thank 'ee most kindly. I'm indebted, truly. Which of you is the captain?"

"That would be me," Emma said. "Welcome aboard the _Blackbird."_

The man's eyes performed that customary flicker of surprise, though she thought it was in response to being greeted by a female captain rather than the name of the vessel; he didn't seem to recognize it, and thus did not know that he had gone from shipwreck to the custody of scurvy brigands. Still, in a moment he was nothing but charm and deference, getting to his feet and taking her hand to kiss. "Obliged, my lady, very much indeed. We sank in the night, can't be entirely sure where – think the storm drove us onto the banks just off Tortuga. There were others still alive, just after, but I don't know where they ended up."

"It seems you're the lucky one." Emma apprised him coolly. Tall, squarely built, and handsome, though the deep streaks of silver in his shoulder-length dark hair and neat beard, and the lines around his eyes, made her put his age as at least fifty, too old for a sailor. To hear him speak, he was Irish, which was also unusual. The English crown, faced with the periodic recurrence of its Irish problem – especially after the role the country had played in harboring the deposed King James after William and Mary's accession to the throne – had adopted the solution of shipping large quantities of Irishmen to the colonies, apparently deciding that while they could still cause plenty of trouble overseas, at least they could not do it in Ireland, which was located a damn sight too close to England for anyone's peace of mind. If that was the case, this newcomer might regard his deliverance with delight rather than hostility, if he'd only had travail and indentured servitude to look forward to otherwise. As he made to take a step forward, Emma said tersely, 'Where did you come from?"

"I was aboard the _Duchess,_ my lady, out of Charlestown. Destined for work on the sugar plantations, far as I know."

"So you were a prisoner, then? Or a bondsman?"

"Neither. I was an honest tavern-keeper in Le Havre, until the day an English customs officer recognized me on account of old debts and seemed inclined to throw me into gaol for it. I disagreed, and left France with my son, deciding to book passage to the Americas. We made it to Charlestown, but we were separated after a bad fire destroyed half the city, and I never. . . I never did find him again, I don't know if he even survived. I plied my trade there a while, but the bloody English caught up to me again and took me to the magistrate. I managed to avoid the noose, so I was sentenced to hard labor instead. That's why they were sending me to Jamaica." He paused, then smiled. "So, not heartbroken over the sinking, my lady, no."

"Indeed." It was certainly a plausible tale, even potentially an honest one, even if Emma could hear a number of things he hadn't said – that an expatriate Irishman owning a tavern in the busy, anonymous port city of Le Havre, running afoul of the law despite his best efforts, forced to seek sanctuary in the colonies, and then arrested again when they finally caught up to him – was probably a criminal with more misdeeds to his name than mere debts or tax evasion. But then, they were all criminals whose _raison d'être_ was that they did not care to pay for things which could be more easily stolen, so that hardly made him unique or detestable. And indeed, the crew was regarding him with open sympathy, clearly feeling his pain that the bloody English should go persecuting a fellow honest thief who had only been minding his own business. "Well then, mate," Will said. "You've landed in the best possible spot if you don't want to go back, as we're certainly not handin' you over to the authorities. We're still bound for Jamaica, though, so it'll be on you not to get yourself caught like an idiot."

"I. . . I certainly understand." As the Irishman glanced around, Emma could see it dawning in his eyes, the realization of who and what they must be. "You've saved my life, I'd never do anything to repay you as poorly as betraying you instead. I'm no sailor, but I learn fast, can cook and brew and clean, and I have plenty of good tales and company to offer. No mean hand in a fight, either. If you allow, Captain – " he turned to her – "I'd be glad to join your crew."

She was taken aback. Even if rather old, he was still an able-bodied and vigorous man, when she usually only had the derelicts, and if his story _was_ true, he had no reason to love the English or go seeking out their justice any more than they did. It was also true that any man who wished to turn pirate was permitted to do so freely, if the rest of the crew assented to it, and plainly hers would. It was just – she hadn't expected to fish out the sole survivor of a shipwreck and then be fielding his application to join fifteen minutes later, but it _was_ far preferable to him being an official of the colonial administration swearing to report them the first chance he got. Perhaps that storm had been a stroke of luck after all. There was no compelling reason why not.

"Very well," she said. "We'll accept you, on provision. You will of course have to prove yourself to our stringent satisfaction, and disloyalty or deceit will not be tolerated. But you sail as a free man under the black now, and with your brothers in arms, Mr. – ?"

"Jones." He smiled at her, charming and crooked, one that she recognized very well as a liar's smile. Not so, she imagined, in this case, but one that would still bear close watching. "Mr. Jones, my lady, Brennan Jones. At your service."

* * *

It was the eve of departure, all was complete, they had been only minorly cheated on the tariff (Killian suspected it was thanks to Robin that it hadn't been any worse) and a messenger had been round from Commodore Hamilton with discreet confirmation of their new orders. The accompanying note sounded distinctly as if he had spent a fair amount of political capital on securing this, and that hence failure would be regarded very dimly indeed, as if Killian needed another reason added to all the others he hadn't been sleeping the last few nights. Thus, naturally, the scout ships had heard reports of bad weather brewing further out in the Atlantic, and it would be Liam's call if they would delay their departure in hopes of avoiding it. This did not seem likely, as he had a reputation as an excellent foul-weather captain and it did not sound any worse than the usual summer tempest in a teapot, but Killian almost wished it would. That might give him more time to work out what in damnation to do about August bloody Booth.

He still had not sorted it in the least degree. He didn't want to have the man on the ship when they left, but the abrupt departure of a skilled carpenter would attract notice and comment from the rest of the crew, a resentful Booth deprived of legitimate occupation and marooned on the island would surely run to Gold for employment, and altogether seemed entirely more trouble than he was worth. At times Killian was horrified to find himself almost considering Regina's suggestion, but it would be very difficult to claim that the man had gone missing, when Antigua was a small island and any search that failed to turn him up would lead to suspicion. As far as Killian could see, he would have to act as if nothing was wrong, set sail as usual, and then attempt to find some private spot to catch Booth alone and impress on him exactly what the consequences for ratting them out would be. If only he knew what the hell those were. However much he could offer as a bribe, Gold could offer thrice that, and Booth was one of the men who couldn't say no to temptation – money, drink, gambling, women, if something was offered to him, he tended to take it. He was also something of an accomplished liar, which further recommended him for Gold's purposes, and a secretive sort who didn't have many close friends on the crew. It wasn't as if Killian would be taking away a bosom companion if he threw August off the ship, but it was still too dangerous without explicit and unambiguous provocation or reason.

Several times, he tried to screw up the courage to just tell Liam about it, have him decide what to do about it. But if he told Liam that he had made arrangements with Regina to suss out the sneak, he would end up telling him about James Nolan as well, and he could only imagine how that would go. He knew he should, he had to, but Liam had been run off his feet overseeing the final stage of preparations, and that likewise seemed the sort of thing that could wait until they were on the water. It was far too bloody much to hope that Nolan would come down with some horrid tropical malaise and keel directly over in the meantime, but he supposed it couldn't hurt trying.

Altogether, his state of mind was not in the least improved by the fact that Gold wanted to throw them a lavish supper party – which immediately made Killian suspect arsenic in the drinks, as the governor was not the type to be a graceful loser. He knew that they would get into further difficulties if they appeared to be snubbing the honor, but that did not mean he was about to subject himself to an entire evening with Gold trying to work out how best to sink his fangs into them. "Can't we beg off somehow?" he grumbled. "Besides, what's he going to do to us if we refuse? We'll be away from the island, out of his reach, and if we come back with an entire pirate ship neutralized and the captain in custody, even he would have a hard bloody time convincing the rest of them to hate us. Can't someone charge _him_ with treason, for trying to subvert a loyal captain and crew and obstruct the workings of His Majesty's justice?"

"Wouldn't that be the day," Liam said, dipping the quill and signing his name to a final dispatch. "But we all know the law does not work the same for highborn lords as it does for the rest of us. Though if someone is still reporting on us to him, it could get complicated."

"They won't be," Killian assured him, hopefully not too quickly. "I've made sure of it."

"Have you?" Liam glanced up with a curious frown. "You haven't said anything about that."

"It was a. . . side project." Killian hesitated. "Liam, if I was to identify the man, hypothetically. What do you think the just response would be?"

Liam's frown deepened. "How can you be sure there will be no more spying, if you don't know who's been doing it?"

"I just can," Killian said feebly. "But if it was a particular man, what should we do? We can't exactly prohibit him from lawfully working for the governor, and we couldn't let him know that we were onto him. Perhaps. . ." He hesitated, hating himself even more for suggesting it, but they had to consider all avenues. "If he just didn't come back?"

Liam stared at him. "Bloody hell, what are you saying? Making sure one of our own men met some dishonorable end to prevent him from – Christ, Killian! Are you quite certain this is hypothetical? If you're talking of murder, I think I should damn well know who and why!"

Their eyes locked for a long moment, until their standoff was interrupted by the sound of a crisp rap on the door. Thinking that if it was Regina again, he was – he was – he was going to do something drastic to forcefully express his extreme displeasure, Killian turned away and strode across the floor to answer it. When he pulled it open, however, it wasn't the madam, but one of the public house's servants, holding out a folded paper sealed with glistening golden wax. "Letter for you, Captain, Lieutenant. Straight from the governor's mansion. Man who brought it said I was to wait and take back your response."

"Splendid," Killian muttered, whisking it out of the servant's hand and slamming the door in his face brusquely enough to be impolite. He broke the seal and scanned the letter; it was, as expected, their formal invitation to supper tonight, to herald the bold undertaking of the HMS _Imperator_ and to welcome some eminent gentleman to the Indies, late of Bristol, Mr. H. Plouton. The courtesy of their presence was most ardently desired and should be promptly notified, gratitude & et cetera.

"Well, he's decided to put our backs against the wall," Killian said aloud. "And welcome some bloody associate of his, as if we needed another reason to get out of here as fast as possible. Some arse called Plouton, so that's sure to be a barrel of – "

There was a crash from behind him, and he turned to see that Liam had dropped the inkwell, causing it to smash on the floor and leave a spreading black stain on the boards. As he knelt to retrieve it, Killian noticed as well that Liam's hands were trembling, and he stared at his brother in confusion and consternation. "Liam, it's just some fool friend of Gold's. What's wrong?"

"Sorry, did you . . . did you say Plouton? From Bristol?" Liam scooped up the inkwell and put it back on the desk, nearly knocking it off again. "The Governor wants us to come to supper with him?"

"What?" It was Killian's turn to frown. "Do you know him?"

Liam hesitated. "I know _of_ him, if it's the same one I've heard about. He's in the assurances and securities business, one of the scoundrels who makes their living by profiting off the misfortune of ships and sailors. It's rumored he periodically arranges for something to happen to the vessels of particularly well-off merchants, so he can collect on the payment for the loss of their cargo."

"Bloody hell," Killian said, with feeling. "Sounds exactly the sort of scoundrel that Gold would socialize with. How would he possibly make money as an assurance agent if he sank ships his own company had underwritten, though?"

"I don't know." Liam wiped the ink off his hands with a rag, and clenched them hard. "Some sort of elaborate scheme of false identities and accomplices, I imagine. Makes himself the beneficiary of their policies, and uses their own profit to pay himself for it."

"Well, if he's running some grossly fraudulent operation, we should report him! We don't want the merchants of Antigua signing up thinking he'll compensate them in case of the loss or destruction of their vessels, and then they end up short a ship and their money in his pocket! Unless that's exactly why Gold brought him, just because this place wasn't rotten enough already, and the two of them are going to rob the local shipping blind in the name of – "

"No!" Liam said sharply. "We don't have a single concrete accusation to put to him. It's only rumor and ill-whisper, I am not spending my last night on the island accusing Gold's business partner of malpractice to his face! As if that's the impression we ought to make on him on our way out the door! Tell the messenger we're. . . we're simply unable to make it on such short notice, too much to finish before we set sail in the morning, but we are deeply sensible of the honor and would love to pay a call on the Governor upon our triumphant return. If he's not inclined to take us at our word. . . here. Give him this."

Liam took out his pocketknife and slit the lining of his coat, where he kept some money sewn into it, and shook out several silver coins. He tossed them, and Killian caught them by reflex, stunned; it wasn't as if he wanted to spend a perfectly good evening with this pair of villains either, but the vehemence of his brother's reaction had taken him completely off guard, not to mention the fact that Liam was using their emergency cash to finagle their way out of it with a last-minute bribe. "Liam, are you sure this is a – "

The elder Jones gave him a searing look, and he snapped his mouth shut, made his way to the door, and told the servant what to relay to Gold's messenger, passing him the coins clumsily enough that he might as well announce his incompetence at clandestine maneuver to the world with a drum-and-trumpet company. When the man had gone, and they waited long enough to be more or less certain that he wasn't coming back, meaning apparently that the bribe had been accepted, Killian blinked hard and rubbed a hand over his face, trying to make any sense of the last ten minutes. "So, I assume that since we've dodged out on Gold, it would not do at all to be spotted anywhere else tonight. Shall I have Mr. Shaw send supper up again?"

"I – I suppose so." Liam sat on the bed, still looking rattled. "If you're hungry."

"Aye." Killian frowned. "You're not?"

"Of course I am." Liam stared at the floor for a long moment, before he shook himself and forced a smile. "I'm going to go down to the ship; the dockyard crew said they'd have her back here before five o'clock. There will likely in fact be plenty of details that I need to sign off on, so it won't be that much of a lie."

"I'll come with you, then." Killian reached for his coat. "Just give me a moment to – "

"No." Liam stood up. "You've done enough, little brother. I'll handle this. I know you haven't been sleeping, and I'll need you awake and rested tomorrow morning. Stay here, turn in early. I'll be back later."

"I should be with you. It's my duty."

"You've done it. Now your captain is ordering you to take heed for yourself, so you don't fall over from exhaustion before we even set out."

"Liam – "

"Do as I say, Killian."

Killian paused, feeling oddly rebuked. Then he nodded. "Aye. As you command."

After Liam had gone, he sat at the desk and paged through the dispatches, making sure everything was complete; his mind would not let him sit back and relax with the thought that his brother was still out there working hard. To hell with this bloody Mr. Plouton, anyway, taking his scurrilous operation from Bristol to inflict upon the innocent merchants of the West Indies. Then again, if they'd spent any time in this place, they probably were not innocent at all, but that still didn't mean they deserved to get systematically defrauded by someone Gold had probably brought here for the express purpose of raising a little extra revenue and showing the islands how dangerous a place this was, and how they so very much needed to approve his extra powers to restore safe commerce at any cost. _Did he hire a few of the pirates as well?_ Given what they had heard about Gold's counterpart in Jamaica, Lord Archibald Hamilton, and his fondness for under-the-table arrangements with privateers, this did not seem out of the question in the least. It was good that Liam knew Plouton was such a rascal. They could possibly find hard evidence to expose his dirty dealings in the course of this assignment, and if it ended up taking down Gold (and James Nolan, while he was thinking optimistically) then so much the better. Then they would all learn an important lesson about meddling with the brothers Jones.

Killian finished the dispatches, yawned so widely his jaw cracked, and tried to make himself think of something else to do, such as going out, locating August Booth's current place of leisure, and having a strongly worded conversation, but reminded himself that he couldn't be seen by anyone who could then convey his whereabouts to Gold. He got onto the bed and took the account book for a little light reading, as if he actually needed to verify Mr. Hawkins' careful figures, but this was a mistake. His head started to nod, he slipped lower and lower on the pillows, and he had just enough time to think that this was only going to be a brief catnap, only a few minutes, before he slumped back and became, in quite short order, utterly dead to the world.

* * *

The _Imperator_ weighed anchor the next morning: the twenty-third of June, which was in fact the third of July by most of the Caribbean's reckoning. Catholic Europe had adopted the new Gregorian calendar at the end of the sixteenth century, but England, who would proudly hate the Pope long past when it was good for them, stubbornly clung to the Julian calendar, which put them eleven days behind the rest of the horrifyingly Pope-prone world. But by either standard, the ship was quite a bit lesser than when she had arrived. Under extreme pressure to get the refit done on time and on budget, and conscious of the fact that they already had a firepower advantage and extra weight would slow them even further in comparison to their light, fleet target, Liam and Killian had elected for the dramatic solution of slashing their tonnage as much as operationally possible. They'd had twenty cannons taken off the ship, to be distributed to the new fort and other vessels in need of them; this reduced their gun carriage to forty, which was still enough to more than match eighteen and which likewise relieved them of supplies and shot for those twenty guns, a hundred men (also to be distributed among the perpetually short-handed Navy) provender and food for those hundred, the extra ballast calculated for their older weight, and all the cargo and personal effects Gold had brought on the crossing. Then they recalculated their entire refit requirement based on this reduced level, which meant they spent a third less than what they'd been fearing. It was a bloody labor of Hercules to get done, but it worked.

All this turned the _Imperator_ from a third-rate ship of the line into essentially a fifth-rate frigate with more manpower and at least a few extra knots under full sail, which were bound to come in handy. She had been careened to clear the hull of shipworm, the tropical parasite that could eat through even solid oaken hulls in a matter of months if not regularly scraped off, and was by far the best-fitted of the local cohort as a result. Indeed, that impressive collection of ships they had seen in English Harbor was essentially fool's gold. Quite apart from the bickering and corruption of the administration, half of them were too shorthanded or too rotted to leave the bay, the ones that actually sailed were due to return to England, and the rest were in no hurry to leave the comfortable work of "protection duty" for an island that wasn't going to be attacked until Judgment Day. No wonder Regina had pounced on them for the job.

The one last-minute expedient that had occurred to Killian as a result of this – including August among the hundred men set to be reassigned to new crews – was likewise no good, as he was the ship's carpenter and thus a ranking officer who couldn't be removed from his post without a convoluted legal procedure. Killian hoped it was a vindication of the _Imperator's_ methods that absolutely none of said hundred men wanted to leave. Of course they wouldn't. They would be going from a ship where they were decently treated, assured of being paid every three months rather than the years that the rest of the Navy kept able seamen in arrears, spared flogging except in the very worst of cases, and fed citrus and greens to prevent scurvy, so often as they were available, to the squalid, brutal, wretched servitude of a fate regarded as comparable to a condemned prisoner's, with the added danger of drowning. But running at two-thirds of their capacity, they couldn't take along all those useless extra mouths, and Killian hated to make them do it, to choose lots and watch the losers trudge off to their new ships, so much that it almost made him physically sick. Most of them would probably be dead soon, especially if they started filling their new mates' heads with tales of how much better things had been on their last crew, and he had as good as signed them back into slavery himself. He was bloody proud of how he and Liam ran the _Imperator,_ no matter how much suspicion it attracted. He'd never change or compromise it. But it was only one ship in a very large Royal Navy, one drop in the bucket, and he couldn't help but wonder what it said that their policies hewed far closer to those of the pirates than they did to their esteemed peers. Almost as if, despite everything and anything anyone said, they might in fact be on the wrong side here.

Not, of course, that he dared to say any of this aloud, or even think it too loudly. They departed on the outgoing morning tide, the trades in particular roar and thus complicating the careful course Killian had set, after all his study of the charts, records, and reports familiar with the _Blackbird's_ movements. As such, they were headed north by northwest, taking them up through the Leewards to the waters around Hispaniola and the Windward Passage, which any ship intending to do business (of one sort or another) with the interior of the Caribbean had to pass through. The west part of this would not be a problem; the north part might be. Large square-riggers could not sail any closer into the wind than about sixty-eight degrees, and since in the Indies it blew almost entirely west, an east-west journey could be an easy, few-day jaunt and a west-east return could be a nightmarish labor of a fortnight or more. They could make good time north if they stayed hard windward, but they would then hit delicate maneuvering around Hispaniola and the inner islands. Overshoot the mark, and it could take up to a month to circle back around. By then, of course, the pirate ship – if she had been anywhere nearby – would be long gone.

The sun was still coming up as they got underway, scattering splinters of deep golden light on the starboard water. Killian was rather surprised that Gold hadn't managed to pull off some final caper to complicate their exit, but so long as the bastard hadn't sneaked aboard and concealed himself in the hold, perhaps they could go back to how things customarily were aboard the vessel. As soon as he took care of that small problem.

Having ascertained that all was well above, he made his way below. In the ordinary course of things, the _Imperator_ mounted fourteen thirty-two-pound heavy cannon on each side of its lower deck, fourteen eighteen-pounders on each side of its upper deck, two "long nines," or the nine-pound bow chasers, fore, and two twelve-pound cannonades astern. Due to their reduction, they had taken off ten guns apiece from the two decks, five from each side, leaving them with eighteen total to port and the same to starboard. A well-trained crew could fire them once every ninety seconds, an average of three broadsides per five minutes, and Killian stood contemplating them for a long moment. Bloody hell, he hoped they had made the right choice. A third-rater was rarely used for this kind of one-on-one pursuit, into the trackless wilds and shoals and treacherous waters of the Caribbean, and it would only be his forte at navigation that kept them from wrecking on one of those.

Abruptly, he found himself wondering about Captain Swan. He hadn't been able to find anything about the man in his search of the Admiralty archives, and Regina of course hadn't offered much in the way of help. He knew Captain Swan was a pirate, obviously, and now their opposite number, the mariner they had to match their wits and cunning against, the master of the ship they were chasing and who might well choose to stand and fight in a full battle, even if ludicrously outgunned; pirates were not fond of surrender, no matter how prudent. They'd probably have to kill him, which was a shame. After just ten days on Antigua, experiencing the delights of the English colonial administration and its ineffective, embezzling, infighting, all but actively criminal representatives, Killian had come out of it with far more sympathy for the pirates than he knew would be in any way appropriate. He'd spent all this time clinging to the Navy because it had saved him from slavery, but he knew that under the command of anyone else but his brother, it would have been no deliverance at all. Even abused merchant marines resisted getting pressed into it; it was the graveyard of sailors, chewed up and swallowed and never heard of again. And even if he and Liam had made something different of it, he was starting to understand just how much that defiance might cost them – and to wonder what might lie beyond. Something much darker and more dangerous than he had ever imagined, and coming from the men and the supposedly honorable service who were supposed to be on their side.

Killian took a final look around the stripped-down gun decks, forced to admit that everything did appear to be in order, and that they were as ready as they could be for what was to come. Then he turned and climbed the ladder back to the main deck, not entirely surprised to see that although the day was still clear, the sky ahead was a blood-streaked red – calling to mind the old saw, "red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailor's warning" – and beyond the curve of the world, the dark clouds were starting to gather. So that, as far as he could reckon, and in more ways than one, they were now sailing directly into the deepening heart of the storm.


	5. V

**-V-**

They could smell Jamaica well before they could see it. Everyone knew the tales of the legendary Port Royal, at first a haven for privateers nipping at the heels of the Hapsburgs and then a full-out pirate Utopia, whose drinking, debauchery, wealth, and wild living had become notorious across the world and drawn colorful characters and enterprising scoundrels from near and far, where the birds and beasts were said to imbibe as much as the men, a thriving city of thieves where any pleasure was available for purchase – the Sodom of the New World, the horrified moralists sniffed. In which case, it had come to Sodom's same fate. It had been almost completely destroyed by a terrible earthquake in 1692, currently rebuilt only as a poor and mean shantytown, and five years prior to that, in the grip of tightened English authority, it had outlawed piracy and begun to hang its former regulars with as much vigor as it had welcomed them. In an attempt to speed up its recovery, the Governor had established designated grounds for dumping its rubbish outside the city limits, which would have worked better if it was not situated directly downwind of the trades. Thus, even before the _Blackbird_ glimpsed Jamaican soil, they could more than admirably breathe in its filth. They were approaching on a cautious course, flying the old French colors, with a flexible notion of their intended anchorage. Port Royal lay just across the bay from the new city and administrative center, Kingston, on the mainland, and the two Navy frigates assigned to permanent station here, HMS _Diamond_ and HMS _Jamaica,_ were guaranteed to be lurking somewhere in those waters. Emma did have a plan, and a rather audacious one at that, but not so much as to start it off by sailing right into them.

They took down canvas and stayed in the current, keeping a sharp eye on the ribbon of land uncurling off to starboard. As it came more clearly into compass, they could also smell a different and much worse stink: the squalid, stultifying reek of the crowded slave markets of Kingston. This was one of the first stops for slave ships arriving from the Middle Passage to offload their human cargo, where a healthy adult male could fetch up to £40 and a female of breedable age to cook and clean, £30, children £10 or £15. Considering even the Governor only received a salary of £300 a year, the amount of money changing hands was vast, an ever-devouring cycle; the plantation owners made their fortune from sugarcane grown and cut by slaves, a hazardous occupation where many of them died, thus requiring the profits to be invested into new slaves, and keep those ships crossing the Atlantic on their deadly voyages. As the pirates stared at the coast, it escaped none of them that this place, once a haven of free men with the ability to live as they pleased, was now the head of such a grim and miserable snake. That all those old swashbucklers of Port Royal had become nothing more than a cautionary tale, and that they could be looking at the future of their own New Providence in ten or fifteen years. That this was who their enemies were, and what they would, in turn, do to them.

"There's nothing worse than slavery," Brennan Jones said, voicing the majority opinion. "I'd have gladly drowned meself before letting that be my lot. No decent man could serve that system and sleep at night."

That got a hearty rumble of affirmation from his new crewmates, and Emma saw several of them cuff him amiably on the shoulder as they passed. She certainly had to admit that thus far, her decision to take him on looked like genius. He had instantly improved the quality of their shipboard meals, actually knowing how to cook as promised, and sorted their stocks to get rid of the rotten or inedible bits, showed them a trick to keep weevils and maggots out of the hardtack, and insisted on washing all their pots and cutlery and dishes in boiling water, which none of them had ever considered. The galley was scoured cleaner than it had been in all the time since they had taken the ship, and he had next gone through the heads and the hammocks to sluice out the old, embedded filth and dirt that attracted fleas and rats. He'd even been charming enough to get the crew happily scrubbing the decks and pumping the bilge, tasks that Emma normally had to almost openly threaten in order to get done, and she had seen Felix watching him very narrowly. No wonder. Felix himself was used to being the one that the crew followed without question, and to have an upstart Irishman, barely a week aboard, usurping him was an extremely unwelcome development. She didn't _think_ he'd try anything rash, not quite, but she also hoped that Brennan slept with a knife near at hand.

She unfolded her spyglass again, watching as Kingston passed astern and no sails could be glimpsed on the horizon, hopefully signaling that both the frigates were elsewhere and that the convoy the _Imperator_ was supposed to be part of had not arrived yet. Her French charts had showed her an anchorage slightly west and south of here that was out of the usual traffic corridor, and there were thick trees ahead, which might indicate a sheltered inlet out of any sight lines from the mainland. It was as good a place as any to dart in, make sure the repairs from the storm damage were completed, and still be within reasonable reach of the city. She had a social call to make, and didn't want to be trekking across half the island to do it.

They rounded the hook of the cape, into the crystalline blue lagoon on the far side, and drew as close to the shore as they could, into the shadow of the mangroves. When she had satisfied herself that they were invisible to ships passing further out to sea, and had a long view of any approach from the east and the capital, Emma ordered the anchor dropped and went into her cabin, where Merida was waiting with the trunks brought up from below. The next stage of the plan involved quite a bit of subterfuge – namingly, hers. Merida laced her into a set of whalebone stays over a shift and petticoat, and she tied on stockings and pockets, a pannier, and an embroidered stomacher, before getting herself into the dress of lightly flowered damask, sleeves ruched with white lace and overskirt caught with pink bows. It was, in short, the furthest thing imaginable from Emma's usual attire, which was exactly the point. Once Merida helped style her hair into a sleek chignon and fasten a velvet choker with a single pearl around her throat, and Emma pinned on a broad-brimmed white straw hat, she had transformed from a pirate captain into a lady of gentle birth and breeding: Miss Emma White, of Charlestown. She rarely introduced herself directly as Leopold and Eva's daughter, but was perfectly happy not to correct anyone who made the assumption, and as she knew all Leopold's ciphers, signatures, and business arrangements, anyone who _did_ become suspicious quickly had their misgivings put to rest. Emma had obtained meetings with important individuals by this method before, posing as her putative parents' representative in business opportunities with their Carolina interests. It was doubtful whether Leopold ever heard a word about it, but if he did – well, she wasn't as selfless to completely forgive him for putting her and Charles out when he learned she was pregnant. _Quid pro quo._

Disguise complete, and Merida dressed similarly as her lady's maid, the two women returned to the deck, where Macintosh, freshly scrubbed, brushed, and jacketed, was waiting for them; he would be playing the role of Miss White's driver and chaperone, as Emma was leaving Will to supervise Felix and Brennan. At the sight of Merida, his eyes widened in frank appreciation, which he hastily disguised with a bow and an offered arm to Emma. "Cap – my lady?"

Biting a grin, she took it, glancing around to be sure everything was in order for their departure. On the off-chance that someone did see them and decided to come snooping, the French colors were still up, and one of her crewmen, Gaston, who actually was French, would pose as Capitaine du Béarn, a French trader out of Grenada. As to why a French trader would be lurking incognito on the coastline of an important English island, deliberately out of the Royal Navy's usual patrolling lanes, that was hopefully a part of the story that would be finessed.

A launch was lowered, and Emma, Merida, and Macintosh went ashore, bushwhacking through the thick jungle greenery to the road that led into Kingston. They stole the first cart they found, along with a mule, and were soon trotting down the hill and into the pungent precincts of the city. Emma opened a fan and fluttered it liberally under her nose, both in service of her cover and because it was the least she could do to dispel the stink that seemed to have settled tangibly into the sun-bleached stone and straw and mud-brick bones of this place. The wind was blowing toward them, inflicting them with the full brunt of the slave market, until Macintosh grimly fingered the pistols he had strapped on a bandolier under his coat. "If I went in there and just started shooting the bloody lot o' them, how many d'ye reckon I could kill before they got me?"

"Not enough," Emma said under her breath. "But while I know how tempting it is, I'll have to ask you to refrain."

Macintosh took hold of the mule's reins again, though not without a lingering black look in the direction of the market; as an extremely proud Scot, he barely needed the justification of freeing slaves to think that shooting a lot of Englishmen sounded like a wonderful idea. The smell abated somewhat as they climbed the streets toward the mansion atop the hill, cozening admittance with the news that a wealthy merchant's daughter had come to visit Lord Archibald, and that if they just asked so-and-so who had talked to such-and-such who reported to the factor of the estate, they would find that Miss White had been expected. Since nobody wanted to actually go to the bother of doing this, and Emma certainly looked respectable, they let the cart in, handed her down in the courtyard, and took her to a shady veranda to sip nectar while someone went to jog Lord Archibald's memory about his important meeting. It took a while, but a servant finally reappeared to beckon to her. "The Governor will see you now."

Emma rose to her feet, donned a smile, and, with Merida and Macintosh trailing behind her, followed him down the corridor, through several rattan doors, and into Lord Archibald Hamilton's inner sanctum. He rose to greet them, a bluff, hearty, bewigged gentleman in his early forties, wearing the blue and gold jacket of his Royal Navy captaincy, as he had commanded the HMS _Lichfield,_ a fifty-gun fourth rate, against French privateers in his younger days. He was charm and courtesy incarnate, if clearly still rather confused, as he pressed Emma's hand to his lips. "Miss White, it is most delightful to meet you. I cannot seem to recall exactly when we arranged our visit, but with all the cares of state, it is easy for these details to slip through the cracks. I do hope you and your father do not consider me boorish or ungrateful. I have heard of Mr. White's great holdings in the Carolinas, and welcome the opportunity to increase our commerce and ties of trade."

Emma assured him that neither she nor her father bore the slightest bit of ill-will for his incompetent scheduling, and sat down across from his desk as Merida and Macintosh took servants' places in the corner. After he had asked her how the Whites' business was doing, and she had provided various general platitudes that it was doing very well, she managed to bring the subject around to her father's concern that expanding trade with the Indies would run afoul of the pirate menace, and that Jamaica itself had recently been suffering from attempted slave revolts, supposedly warranting a higher Royal Navy presence for its pacification. What, exactly, did Hamilton have to say about either of these concerns? Did he know when the new convoy from Antigua was expected, and who would be sailing in it?

Lord Archibald blinked, clearly not having imagined that a well-bred young lady would hide the soul of a brass-tacks, hard-nosed businessman behind her pink ribbons and lace. "My dear, you may be assured that we are doing everything possible on both fronts. As for the pirates, I have a particular scheme to ensure that my ships are not attacked, and as for the slave revolts, their extent has been far overstated. At no point have we been close to losing control of the island, or even facing an actual conflict. It is nothing more than the usual malcontent muttering, and I conveyed this sentiment most clearly to the command on Antigua, that we did not require more than the usual Navy presence. They, alas, have not taken my word for it."

It occurred to Emma just then that Lord Archibald had plenty of reasons not to want the Navy sniffing too closely around his comfortable setup here, especially if it involved bribing the pirates with large sums at regular intervals – she was well aware that that was what his "particular scheme" to protect his shipping actually was. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, as Lord Archibald obviously could not pay every pirate on New Providence and if one of the less-greased individuals came across one of his vessels, they might well consider it fair game as a prize. But since the tales of the privateer Jennings were getting around, this was less common than it had been. Nobody wanted _that_ mad bastard sent after them, no matter what they scoffed about not being afraid of the Governor's personal customs-collector.

Sensing an opportunity, Emma leaned forward. "Perhaps I can assist with that? I know a man who sails on the – what was it, HMS _Imperator?_ A childhood friend. If you notified me when they arrived, I could have a. . . discussion with him about where the Navy's time could be most fruitfully applied."

"A man? What's his name?"

Emma thought quickly, and settled on her newest crew member's extremely common surname, as odds were good that at least somebody answering to it would be present. "Jones."

"Well, I shall keep it in advisement. Are you staying on the island?"

"We, ah, we were certain we would be able to arrange lodgings. If you had a recommendation?"

"Aye," Macintosh put in. "And somewhere away from yon bloody reekin' hellhole. "

At the sound of his voice, an extraordinary change came over Lord Archibald's face. Until now he had evinced every appearance of polite interest in "Miss White" and the chance to take a bite of the family's tempting merchant apple, but at this it became altogether different, focused, intense. "I'm sorry, Mr. – ?"

"Dingwall."

"Mr. Dingwall. You are from Scotland, I collect? The Highlands?"

"Aye. Inverness-shire." Macintosh eyed him narrowly. "Your lordship had some interest in it?"

"Only of a theoretical nature. What with the rumors of uprising against King George. . ." Hamilton turned to Emma. "Miss White, if you will permit me a question merely in the interest of business, how would you describe your father's. . . political inclinations?"

"He's a loyal subject." Emma smiled sweetly. "Aren't we all?"

"Of course, of course." The Governor inclined his head deferentially. "Foolish even to wonder. If I could perhaps tempt you with supper? If the hour gets too late, you would of course be welcome to lodge here, as we have plenty of extra room. My wife, Lady Anne, would certainly appreciate the company of a gentlewoman as well. Otherwise we can – what is it?"

The servant had re-entered the room, bending to whisper urgently in Lord Archibald's ear, as a faint frown appeared between his brows. "Now? Isn't it rather. . . early?"

"They said they were blown off course by a storm, and wished to consult with Your Excellency on a delicate matter. If you had a moment at leisure?"

The governor was still looking considerably disgruntled, and Emma was doing her best not to appear as if she was listening hard, as Lord Archibald waved a hand and the servant showed himself out. There was a slightly awkward silence, until Lord Archibald said, "My dear, you have my most profuse apologies, but we shall have to make our formal arrangements at a later date. I have been unexpectedly requisitioned for a second meeting, and I would not want to keep you from exploring the pleasures of the city. Do be inside by dark if you'd prefer to stay at the villa, and even if you don't. The streets can get a bit rough after sundown."

Emma assured him she would do so, while privately thinking that what Lord Archibald imagined her to consider rough, and what she actually did, were so far apart that the former could not even spot the latter with a telescope. She was just getting to her feet, reaching for her hat, and wondering what exactly he thought the pleasures of the city were, when the rattan doors banged again and two Royal Navy officers strode in. Captain and lieutenant, by the looks of their trim; the former several inches taller and several years older than the latter, both of them well-favored, dark-haired, and good-looking, hats under their arms. They came to a precise halt and bowed. "My lord," the elder one said. "We apologize for our surprise arrival, but we can assure you, it is a matter of exigency. We did not mean to disrupt your meeting."

"Not at all, not at all." If he had been taken off guard by his guests, Lord Archibald did not show it. "My door is always open to my fellow brethren of the Navy. You are – ?"

"Captain Liam Jones, my lord. My brother and lieutenant, Killian Jones. At your service."

"Jones? Off the _Imperator?"_ Lord Archibald turned to Emma, who experienced a sensation as if she had just been hit very hard in the stomach. "Jones! Would either of these be your friend? You failed to mention that they commanded the ship! That would certainly explain your confidence in persuading them!"

"I – " Emma opened and shut her mouth. "I – I don't believe so?"

"Please do excuse my deplorable manners in having the lot of you stacked atop each other like this. Gentlemen, allow me to present Miss Emma White, the daughter of one Mr. Leopold White, from the Carolinas. Miss White, Captain and Lieutenant Jones, of HMS _Imperator."_

"Pleasure," Emma managed, as they took her hand and kissed it in turn. To say the least, she had not been expecting them to walk in here, and tried to size up the captain without letting on. She had to admit, he didn't look like a monster, not that that meant anything. But in her line of work, she had to know and know fast if a man was rotten, and she didn't get that sense from him. He must be quite good at playing the debonair aristocrat, the sort who hid his depravity deep down. It was unfortunate that his little brother was looking at him as if he hung the moon. Having a little brother herself, she knew something about the sort of pedestal they placed you on.

Macintosh caught her eye behind their backs, as Emma had told the crew that the name of their target was the _Imperator,_ but not, of course, that it was in the Navy. He mouthed "what the bloody hell?" at her, to which she shook her head infinitesimally; he then put a hand on one of his pistols, as if asking if he should just whip it out and shoot the captain on the spot, to which she shook her head frantically. If they could get back to the _Blackbird_ while the _Imperator's_ commanding officers were distracted on land, they might have a real chance of overpowering it _–_ but the informant in the Turks had told her, after all, that the entire point was for them to die. That this was the man who would crush and subjugate the Indies beneath his heel, that he was infamous and sadistic even by the Navy's unexacting standards. If all it took to stop it was one bullet – if perhaps he stayed for supper as well, and Macintosh could lure him into a dark corridor – they might not even need to take the ship, as long as the captain died –

"Killian," the captain said. "I need to converse with the governor. Perhaps if you'd like to see Miss White out?"

"Aye, of course." The lieutenant looked at her. He had quite blue eyes, and something about him – his face, or perhaps his thick dark hair, drawn into a more or less tidy queue – briefly and unsettlingly reminded her of Brennan. But Jones, as noted, was a very common name, and she dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. He bowed and offered his arm. "Miss White?"

Fighting something close to vertigo, Emma took it, nodding at Merida and Macintosh to stay behind. He was undeniably a handsome boy – well, man, close to her own age of twenty-eight, but something about him seemed younger. They processed stiffly down the airy corridor to the balcony at the end, overlooking the crowded rooftops of Kingston, palm trees waving in the breeze and sun flashing on the harbor. If one could overlook the open sore of the slave market, and drown out the distant shouts of the auctioneers, it was very nearly beautiful, and Emma leaned on the railing, fluttering her fan and deciding that she might as well use this chance to dig for information. "Lieutenant – Killian, was it? That's an unusual name."

"It's Irish." He glanced at her sidelong under those long dark lashes, only for a moment, not a man at ease in the company of women. Then he resumed his relentless fascination with the ground below, which was evidently far more intriguing than she was. "But my brother and I are most loyal English subjects. You must not hold our birth against us."

"Of course not." Irishmen named Jones seemed to be popping up like mushrooms after a hard rain; perhaps merely one of those quirks of fortune, but still something to keep an eye on. "So, Lieutenant, you're from the _Imperator,_ is that what Lord Archibald said? First posting to the Indies?"

"More or less. But we're not even supposed to bloody be here, in this. . . this _place."_ It was spat with a venom to take her aback, as his eyes came up and fixed directly on the slave market at the foot of the hill. "We were caught in a storm and pushed off course, so Liam decided to put in here for information. We're on a particular purpose, and we were _supposed_ to avoid this filthy miserable sty! That was the entire point!"

Emma was surprised and discomfited at the raw, exposed nerves of his anger, a soul who could not hide the depths of its damage even for knowing it should, and found herself moving to put a hand on his. "It is rather distasteful," she said. "But what do you mean, you weren't even supposed to be here? Wasn't the _Imperator_ assigned to the convoy to pacify the slave revolts?"

Lieutenant Jones gave her a very sharp look, and she bit her tongue; there was no way for Miss Emma White of Charlestown to know intimate details of his ship's deployment, and she hastened to cover the gaffe. "Lord Archibald mentioned it in our conversation before your arrival. I thought I had a friend serving aboard your vessel, but I may have been mistaken."

"A friend? Name of Jones, is that what he said?" Killian Jones continued to study her. "There are a dozen or so Joneses besides myself and my brother, aye, though we left half of them in Antigua. Would you be looking for one of them?"

"I – no, I think it was an error." Emma smiled self-deprecatingly, continuing to flutter her fan; for some reason, she found it hard to look directly into his eyes. Likely because she was a pirate captain engaged to murder him and his brother for profit, standing here as if at leisure while she had to be sure not to let her masquerade slip again, and she could already sense a dangerous sort of interest in him. Not, as might be expected, the simply carnal, although there was that element of recognizing his good looks, but something different. Wanting to ask why he was so particularly angry about the slave market. Wanting to know why it hurt so much. But that was not ground she needed to get onto with this strange, reticent, shadowed young lieutenant, and she changed tack. "So your brother is also your captain? That seems rather serendipitous. Though given what I've heard about the Navy. . . perhaps not?"

"He's the best man in the world," Killian Jones said passionately. "He's always done everything for me, for us. I'd die if I ever lost him."

Emma had to push down a heavy, unpleasant writhe of guilt in her stomach. Of course Captain Jones' adoring little brother couldn't be trusted for an accurate report of his character, even though she had already sensed that the lieutenant, whatever else he might be, was no liar; indeed, he was almost brutally honest, without the sort of pander and guile that was common to older and more experienced politicians. "Your brother, he doesn't. . . he doesn't mistreat you? I'm sorry, I've only ever heard that the Royal Navy demands its captains to be quite, well, vicious."

"Liam doesn't do that." Killian looked at her proudly. "Neither of us. We never have. If they want to bloody court-martial us for it one day, that's their lookout, but so be it." He shrugged, realized he might be speaking too frankly to an impressionable young woman, and caught himself. "I beg your pardons, mistress. I'm. . . I am only used to spending time around sailors, and they're not especially known for decorum."

"You're better at it than most Navy officers," Emma said. "I – I mean I've met others, growing up in Charlestown. They weren't usually the most pleasant of comers."

"Liam says that a gentleman must always show good form." Killian Jones repeated this in the tone of someone reciting a maxim he had learned at a young age and reinforced to himself every day since, which he clung to and did his best to emulate in all respects, but which was always in danger of slipping out of reach, vanished on the wind, and he was terrified of what happened when it did. "Again, mistress, if I have given offense in any way – "

"You haven't." She put a hand on his again, because the poor lad would clearly suffer fits of guilt over it for ages if he thought her innocence had been violated by his utterance of the word "bloody" in her presence, and their eyes both flickered to it. Unsettled, she pulled it back. "As I said, I grew up in a port and as the daughter of a merchant. I've heard much worse."

"Oh." He seemed to relax somewhat. A faint, tentative smile appeared from the wild. "The – the rest of them. The Navy officers. They're really the deuce of an inconvenience, aren't they?"

"Aye." Emma couldn't help smiling back at him. _More than you will ever know, Killian._ She had been aware of something in the back of her head ever since they had started the conversation, and which, at that, she couldn't keep away any longer: she wished she had never met him, at least face-to-face. It could very well be the case that his brother wasn't the man he thought he was, that it was best for everyone concerned for her to get on with killing him, disabling the _Imperator,_ and collecting the reward. Charles and Henry's fates were at stake, she reminded herself. She couldn't suddenly scruple on taking a prize to ensure it, just because of a passing moment with a handsome lieutenant, but – no, it still wasn't that. If it had just been attraction to a pretty face, it would have been easy to overcome and disregard it, as she had shot men before regardless of whether or not they were pretty. But this wasn't that. She simply didn't want to take this fierce, fragile boy's brother away from him. And yet, for everything that she knew and had been paid for and had her own future wagered on, she would have to.

"It's been – it's been lovely to meet you, Lieutenant," she said, stepping back. "I really should be getting on, but truly – "

"Aye, mistress. It has." That fleeting smile again, there and gone in an instant, as he made an impeccably correct bow. "Please permit me to see you to your carriage?"

Emma could think of no way to refuse without being outright rude, and had to let him take her arm again as they returned inside, stopping by the office where Merida and Macintosh were goggling at her, apparently in shock that she had gone off alone with the lieutenant from their prize and hadn't just pushed him off the balcony. She was just about to instruct Macintosh to fetch their "carriage" (i.e. the stolen mule cart) when the doors swung open again and Lord Archibald and Captain Liam Jones emerged. With an air of deep relief, Lord Archibald said, "Ah, Lieutenant! We were just about to find you. As I have informed your brother, it should be no trouble at all to send you on a resumption of your mission. I have no precise whereabouts of the vessel to offer, but it has been recently rumored to be operating around the Turks Islands. Perhaps that may be of assistance?"

Macintosh opened his mouth, winced as Merida stamped on his foot, and smiled broadly instead. "Seekin' a vessel from the Turks?" he said. "Pirate-huntin', are ye?"

"Yes." Captain Jones studied him with that same reserved coolness, thoughts entirely hidden behind those pale blue eyes. "Is that some concern of yours, good sir?"

Macintosh shrugged. "No that I ken. We've no interest in it, aside from the academic. Surely, though, a threat notorious enough to merit its own Naval pursuit must be one o' the big fish. Which is it? Vane? Hornigold? Flint?"

"None of those." Captain Jones put on his hat and beckoned to his brother. "Swan."

It was a good thing Emma had genuinely just dropped her fan and was stooping to retrieve it, otherwise they both certainly would have seen the expression on her face. As it was, both Merida and Macintosh were forced to feign convenient coughing fits, and she took rather a long time about picking it up, nearly dropping it again due the tremble in her hands. "I'm sorry, did you say _Swan?_ I wasn't even aware there was a captain by that name."

"It has proven difficult to locate any hard evidence about the man." Liam Jones shrugged. "All we know is that he commands a ship called _Blackbird,_ most likely out of New Providence, and may have been culpable in the sinking of the HMS _Valiant_ a few years ago. As well, that the task of catching him is not to be underestimated, that several more good captains and ships have met mysterious ends in the course of their pursuit. Is any of that familiar to any of you?"

Emma, Merida, and Macintosh shook their heads in unison.

"Pity. I'm half beginning to wonder if he's a ghost." Captain Jones turned back to Lord Archibald. "I appreciate your hospitality, my lord, but it is not our intent to impinge upon it longer than the afternoon. We'll set sail for the Turks by morning, if you can think of nothing else to keep us. Good day. Killian, come."

Lieutenant Jones, with half a glance at Emma, touched his hat and scurried after his brother, leaving them communally stunned. They could hardly sit in Lord Archibald's villa, with his servants listening at keyholes, and calmly discuss this development, and nor did she want to go back to the ship until she could be certain of what she was going to tell the crew. So they notified their regrets as graciously as possible, collected themselves, and withdrew to a tavern on the far side of the city from the slave market, gazing toward the foreboding green mountains of the island's interior. It was terraced with the plantations that grew coffee and sugar, the lifeblood of the Caribbean trade, and they could hear the distant thud and rattle of passing wagons, laden with sacks and barrels. That, combined with the racket of the busy establishment, gave them a private corner to gather their thoughts, all three of them already half-convinced that there must have been a mistake. Who would set the Royal Navy specially to hunt _them,_ a small crew of minimal account, a captain nobody consequential had ever heard of? Unless they had somehow made some powerful enemy quite by accident, but. . .

Emma remembered Will telling her that them being sent after the _Imperator_ did not smell at all aboveboard, that they must have been set up, and to find that the selfsame vessel had apparently then been sent after _them,_ some demented scheme to pit them against each other – Christ, whowaspulling the strings? As well, Merida and Macintosh wanted to know just when she was planning to tell them that they had been supposed to attack the Navy, and she didn't have much of an answer. That purse of Spanish pieces of eight had been, as it was clearly intended to, extremely good at deterring difficult questions. But what the blazes did they do now?

"Well, they said they were sailin' to the Turks," Macintosh said at last. "Where they willna find us, obviously, so I'd say we've had a lucky escape. Let 'em stay on their snipe hunt, going in circles, and we call the whole thing off, go back to New Providence, and warn the rest of them that there's something verra dangerous afoot."

"Aye, and what would the crew think?" Emma rubbed the ache between her brows. "I promised them a rich prize, one that would make our fortunes, and suddenly we're tucking our tails between our legs and running for no good reason? Felix could probably get half of them to mutiny on the spot. We have to know what we're doing before we just set sail again. After the last storm, I don't fancy getting caught in the open ocean by one of those again. Or – "

"Lord Archibald," Merida interrupted. "He turned most friendly when he heard Mac speak, kent he was Scottish. Started offerin' us a chance to stay in his mansion and visit wi' his wife and take supper. Why's that?"

"He's an Englishman," Macintosh said cynically. "Probably judgin' how much to spit in it."

"Well, no," Emma said, as something occurred to her. "He's not. His father is the Duke of Hamilton, they're Scots from Edinburgh. Doubtless he's been educated to speak as a proper Englishman, but you're right, he did suddenly get most interested in Leopold White's political sympathies. And I don't think it was just because he assumed they were the same as everyone else's. As well, he's been purchasing the pirates' friendship for a while, or at least proved more than willing not to chase us if we pay him. Wouldn't an actual loyal servant of King George want us stopped?"

Macintosh frowned at her. "So what?"

"So. . ." Emma could see something taking shape, something she wasn't sure of, not entirely, but which made an unsettling amount of sense. "I think he's a Jacobite. He's supporting James Stuart, Queen Anne's half-brother, for a restoration to the English crown. We know there have been rumors of rebellion back in England, and George of Hanover's seat is far from secure. Jesus, that's why he's been buying the pirates off, getting his hand in the pie with this Jennings. It's not just greed, it's politics. He might have ideas that he can muster us as a force to match the Royal Navy, strike all at once and overtake the Caribbean in the name of the Stuart cause."

Merida and Macintosh stared at her. "That'd never work," Macintosh said at last. "Even if I would bloody well support him in doin' it, or at least causin' the English plenty of misery. Pirates dinna serve as some sort o' shadow Navy, fighting a king's battles. No matter which one. We won't kneel to him, it doesna matter who his da was."

"Maybe not, but Hamilton seems to think there's a chance they might. Some sort of united pirate threat." Emma's mind was racing. "Or at least his own unofficial privateer flotilla. If I returned to him as myself. . . do you think he'd be inclined to buy us off in the name of making us part of it?"

"He might," Macintosh said. "Or he might hold a grudge for the whole pretendin' ye were a rich merchant's daughter bit. If he _is_ a Jacobite, Leopold White on his side was a tempting prospect, and obviously it's naught but a lie. Bloody hell, the _Imperator_ is still here. He could just hand you over to prove his loyalty and get the Navy to quit sniffin', giving him all the time he needs to cook up this fool wee plan of his. It's nothing to him, not unless you can show you're an enemy to be feared if he doesna do something to stop you or make you his friend. Give him incentive."

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Emma said grimly, "I think we need to get back to the ship."

"Aye." Macintosh glanced at her. "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Captain?"

"I believe I am." Emma quaffed the last of her drink, got to her feet, and pulled at her stays. "If he fears a slave revolt, we should bloody well give him one."

* * *

It was a slow, sticky walk back to the ship, which had anchored in the protective inlet of Kingston Harbor, its three masts rising proudly above the crowded quays with their small longboats, fishermen's pirogues and ketches, merchants' sloops and pinnaces, and HMS _Diamond,_ one of the island's two assigned fifth-rates, which mostly served to float there and look menacing; the Navy figured, not without good reason, that nobody was mad enough to attack Jamaica directly. The _Imperator_ was certainly the biggest attraction the docklands had had for a while, and Liam and Killian had to swat off crowds of gawking citizens and urchins in search of a spare coin or two, or promising that they knew a good merchant in town. They'd just gotten done with the ordeal of one refit, they weren't about to put themselves through another so soon, and shouldn't have to do so for a while. The storm had been bad enough to knock them off course and force them to put in at the one place they had gone to such trouble to avoid, but not to do any significant damage, though they rolled quite a bit more in the swells since they'd trimmed a third of their weight. At least they had rolled fast, as they had crossed the almost thousand miles between Antigua and Jamaica in under five days. Even with the trades at their back, that was noteworthy.

"So," Liam said, after they had dismissed the urchins and were back on board. "I don't fancy trying to chart a course out of here in the dark, so we'll stay the night and set sail for the Turks tomorrow. The wind will be against us, we'll have to see how much all that lighter weight actually benefits. Or we can – Killian, are you listening to me?"

"What? Aye." He straightened up quickly, putting Miss White's green eyes out of his head. He hoped he hadn't said anything too stupid, though he wasn't quite sure what exactly it had been; he had a vague recollection it was mostly about Liam. "We're sailing for the Turks in the morning, of course. Do you think Lord Archibald's information was good, though? He seems rather too cozy with the pirates to be certain."

"In this, at least, I don't think he's lying. Though I did notice he seemed entirely eager to have us out of here at speed. Probably has arrangements with the captains of the _Diamond_ and the _Jamaica_ that they don't pry too closely into his business, and he returns the favor. We, on the other hand, are unknown commodities, command the most powerful warship in the bay, and have come straight from Antigua with its new hardline regime, who doubtless have heard plenty of whispers of his potential subversion. He'd want us gone at any price."

"Well, then. . ." Killian frowned. "If he's being dishonest, shouldn't we do something about it?"

Liam gave him a wry look. "We're being paid to hunt pirates, little brother, not sack corrupt governors. Besides, as you've surely noticed, they're _all_ corrupt. It would barely make a dent in anyone's plans if one fell to be replaced with another. But that is not our job."

Killian was silent. He knew, as always, that Liam was right. But he hated the ever-growing evidence that they were the only two honest men in this world, run over and picked clean in every direction, and that doing the right thing and trusting it would work seemed naïve to the point of irresponsibility when everyone else was doing the exact opposite. Not that it would solve anything if they opened up a salvo on the fort, just to check if Lord Archibald was paying attention; firing on friendly territory was not, to say the least, behavior guaranteed to convince the Admiralty of their bona fides. And as much as he didn't want to say it, it was also becoming increasingly clear to him that they could not both survive and succeed – at least, certainly not the way they had been approaching it. If this bloody game wasn't rigged from top to bottom, which was also a strong possibility. He'd always known how small their efforts were in the scheme of things, that for every night they congratulated themselves for a well-run ship, a content, hard-working, well-fed crew, there were a dozen others where seamen just like theirs were flogged and starved and terrorized. Not that he wanted them to turn into monsters; it was the last thing he wanted, in fact. But why, _why,_ did the monsters always get to win?

"Don't give me that look," Liam said, seeing the mulish expression on his face. "I know you've always been one to deeply feel the injustice of things. But what are we supposed to do about it? We have to focus on what we can control, Killian. We'll be out of here in a few more hours, so remember what I told you and just – "

"Aye. Shut my eyes to it." If only he could. He was beginning to think it might be a good deal easier to live that way, but at what cost? "Li. . . doesn't it. . . doesn't it _bother_ you?"

Liam hesitated. "It's not the most enviable of situations," he admitted. "But I care more about our mission, about demonstrating our loyalty and keeping us safe, than I do about Lord Archibald's sordid backroom deals or whatever other skeletons anyone has in their privy closets. Please, Killian. Trust me."

"I do." Killian looked up into his face, its premature lines and shadows, the weight of their world that Liam had borne on his shoulders like Atlas all this time, trying to spare him the burden. "Liam, you know I do. Always. I just wish for once I didn't have to close my eyes, hold my nose, and stop my ears to make our duty possible."

"As long as we're together, it doesn't matter." Liam peeled off his sweat-soaked jacket and waistcoat, hanging them up to dry; the tropical heat of Jamaica at the end of June was no bloody joke. Killian did not intend to run around in heavy wool either, regardless of convention, and his lieutenant's tailcoat was already on its peg. In a more teasing tone, his brother added, "Miss White was very pretty, wasn't she?"

"What?" Killian felt heat of a different kind climbing his cheeks. "Is she? I – I didn't notice."

Liam raised an eyebrow. "Nice to meet you too, Queen Anne."

"Stuff it, Liam. Her Majesty is dead, anyway."

"Someone inform the newspapers, then. That seems to be a rather pressing dispatch. Though a respectable merchant's daughter, trusted with her father's wealthy business concerns, and easy on the eyes to boot – I suppose you could do much worse."

"Wh – what?" Killian spluttered. "Are you _matchmaking?_ This is revenge for me prying about Regina, isn't it? I'm not going to _marry_ the wench! I'll probably never even see her again!"

"Easy, little brother." Liam unwound his cravat. "As for that, you never know. If your plan to stay here after our posting is over is to have any merit, a marriage to the heiress of one of Carolina Colony's largest landholders couldn't hurt."

Killian stood opening and shutting his mouth for several seconds, even as an unwelcome voice in his head noted that Mr. Leopold White might actually consider a Royal Navy lieutenant, decorated from a successful mission and renowned across the Caribbean, as a suitable match for his daughter. Then again, she was probably engaged to some stuffed-shirt planter's son already, settle on a rambling estate to have seven children and sit in a hot church on Sundays. It seemed a waste for someone like her, although he wasn't sure how to articulate it exactly. The way she'd said she'd grown up around the port, how she'd seen worse, how they had agreed that the Navy's high command were generally a bunch of insufferable arseholes. How she hadn't seemed repulsed by the prospect of finding out who he really was, the possibility that kept him at arm's length from all other women, but intrigued. The same as he wanted to do with her.

Still, though. If he wanted any hope of achieving it (it was a dream, just a silly dream, he should tuck it into the back of his head and forget about it) he had to first finish this pirate-hunting mission and thus impress Mr. White with his credentials, and he suddenly found himself with considerably more enthusiasm for the prospect. It was dusk, the sunset striping broad swathes of rose and gold on the ink-dark glass of the harbor, and he supposed that now was really the time to tell Liam about Nolan and Booth. They could work out together what to do about it; he had just said he trusted Liam, Liam had promised that no matter what, nothing would separate them. The entire success of their enterprise might rest on it, and that had become rather more important to him than he was anticipating. He had to do it. He had to.

"Liam?" he said, as his brother was shrugging on a fresh shirt. "I – thought you should know something. About a few things that happened before we left Antigua."

Liam's head appeared through the neck of the new shirt with an inquisitive expression. "Aye? I had a feeling there was something. But we had enough on our plate, I supposed it could wait."

"Well, perhaps." Killian's hands were shaking slightly, and he clenched them. "Nolan – Captain Nolan, the redcoat bastard, he knew we were going after the _Blackbird,_ and he found me down on the beach. He wants a cut of anything we take off it – twenty percent of cargo, thirty percent of any treasure, and for us to tell the Army how important he was in its capture. He's got his eye on a promotion, and he's decided we're going to help him get it. In return, he promised he'd keep Gold off our scent and otherwise smooth over any difficulties that should arise as a result of us dodging the posting here."

Liam looked first blank, then furious. "What – that embezzling whoreson! Thinks he can just stick his hand into our back pocket, pluck out a fat plum for himself, and skate clean with it? You refused, of course."

Killian shifted his weight.

"What? You said _yes?_ Killian, you agreed to some duplicitous bargain without consulting or even mentioning it to me? God's teeth! I'm your _captain!"_

"Liam, I know, I know! He had me in a corner, he – he threatened you, he insulted me, he – "

"So, because he insulted you, you bartered away a cumulative fifty percent of a take we don't have yet, and still left me utterly in the dark about it? With such an insult as that must have been, I'm surprised there weren't pistols at dawn! Jesus bleeding Christ, Killian, how many times do I have to tell you that we can't keep – "

"And what would you have done?" Killian flared. "Refused? I know you would! Because you're just so bloody good, you'd never make any sort of deal with the devil even if it meant saving someone you loved! No, you never make mistakes! That's for me to do, isn't it?"

Liam looked as if he'd been shot, and in the brief, ringing silence, Killian bit his tongue hard enough to taste blood. "Liam – no, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. You're a much better man than me, I know everything that comes so easily to you – I can't do it the way you can. I keep blundering into it no matter how many times you try to protect me from myself – but I swear, I wanted to tell you the instant I did it, I was just. . ." He trailed off. Miserably and quietly, he finished, "I was afraid you would be disappointed in me."

"Bloody hell." Liam raked a hand through his curls, staring at the ceiling of the cabin, before blowing out a long, jagged breath. "I'm sorry too, Killian. I know Nolan is a far more experienced snake than you, and much can change between now and then. I just – how am I supposed to protect you if I don't know what to protect you from? If you're out there making enemies and getting yourself into sticky situations and I haven't any notion – " He caught himself, holding back a faint crack in his voice. "I am haunted by the idea that one day I'll turn around and you'll be gone, and I won't know where and I won't know how to find you or help you or bring you back. Promise me, Killian. Promise that day won't come."

"Of course," Killian said at once, moving to take his brother's hand and clasp hard. "As you said, Liam. Nothing else matters as long as we're together. And you know I'd never – what was that?"

"What was what?" Liam frowned.

"That!" Killian let go of him and moved to the stern window, peering out toward Kingston. It was full dark, lit only by the waterfront lamps and the glow of taverns and supper clubs and brothels, but he was sure he had heard something that was not the usual hum of evening commerce – which sounded, in fact, very much like small-arms fire, which he was certain of in another moment as the distinct crack and pop came again. Somebody was shooting in the lower precincts of the city, not in the docklands but close, at the –

"It's the slave market." Liam had come to look over his shoulder, and he and Killian whirled to face each other with the conclusion at the same moment. "Someone's in there. Someone who, I think we can wager, has no interest in purchasing a full-blood Gold Coast negro to work their plantation."

There was another silence as they stared at each other, both thinking that they had been so eager to take on the _Blackbird_ assignment precisely to avoid this very situation – being sent to Jamaica to pacify a slave revolt – and might be facing it now instead, with no way to escape the choice. Distant shouts were starting to spread, someone was ringing a church bell to raise the alarm, and a blaze of fire went up at the foot of the hill. Killian caught a glimpse of running figures, looked back at Liam, and said, "We have to do something."

"Aye, but what?" Liam's face was white. "Assist them in stopping it? You know we won't do that. If we sit on our ship and fiddle while Rome burns, it's treason. And if we help the slaves – "

"It'll be chaos, nobody will know!" Leaving off his jacket, which was too heavy and besides would helpfully identify him as a Royal Navy lieutenant, Killian crossed to the trunk, pulled out his saber, musket, and flintlock pistol, and strapped them on. "Do what you want, I'm going!"

"Killian – _Killian –_ _KILLIAN!"_ Swearing, Liam spun around, grabbed his own armaments, and pounded after him. "Bloody hell! You fucking idiot, you – I'm not letting you go alone, you'll get your arse into so much trouble I won't even be able to dig through the shit long enough to – "

They ran out onto the deck, as the men, who had been at supper, were starting to appear in concern at the sound of the ruckus. Liam tersely ordered them to hold station until they returned, they were going ashore to make an appraisal of the situation. They vaulted onto the gangplank and ran flat-footed up through the maze of quays to the mud ruts of the main road, toward the forbidding palisade of the slave market: a fence of stakes ten feet high and sharpened at the top, a heavy gate chained with double padlocks, and armed men and dogs patrolling the surrounds during daylight selling hours, all to ensure the wealthy buyers that they were quite safe, could enter to inspect the merchandise without fear of something unpleasant happening. This was an illusion, only insofar as the fact was that all of ruling Jamaica lived in terror of a slave revolt. The whites were a tiny minority, governors and plantation owners and overseers and soldiers, along with whatever other notables turned up now and then. The rest of the island's population was the vast number of slaves required to keep the great gears of sugar production turning, and the owners of neighboring plantations took draconian measures to prevent them from socializing with each other, from passing information, for doing anything that could lead to them finding common cause and rising up. Even then, tribes of escaped slaves – the Maroons – were rumored to live in the mountainous interior, possibly able to swell their numbers high enough to make a full assault, and they practiced a heathen religion utterly abhorrent to English Protestant civilized sensibilities: something called vodou, with priests called houngans and sorcerers of black magic, the _bokor,_ who were supposedly able to charm up spirits from the depths of hell and drag men to death, then reawaken their corpses and make them do his dread bidding. It was fitting, Killian supposed, that this was what slave masters feared most: being stripped of their will and forced to submit to the same sort of alienation of themselves that they had so long visited on their human chattel. _You will never know, you bastards. Never know what it is truly like, not to be in control of yourself. To be nothing more than a pawn on some great chessboard. No one._

He put on a burst of speed, reaching the market gates and seeing that the chains had either been picked by someone exceptionally skilled with locks, or simply blasted out of the way, as the wood was pocked with holes that looked too big and too extensive for pistol or musket fire from one person – almost as if a well-armed gang had forced their way in here, with larger-bore blunderbusses effective at short range, or perhaps a small-size ship's gun that could be easily transported. But while soldiers commonly carried blunderbusses, there was of course no way that a gang of local redcoats, no matter how bored and/or drunk, would be forcing into the slave market with fire and sword, and it was otherwise the favored weapon of men who did a lot of fighting at close quarters. Men who made their living in brief, intense engagements on the high seas, in boarding parties with ships jammed alongside each other. Which was to say –

 _Pirates._ Killian didn't know why or exactly he was sure, but he was, that this was no accident, no sudden gang of vigilantes appearing from the ether. Pirates were known to attack slave ships and accept the freed men into their crews, Negro and white serving alongside each other as equals, and the added benefit of striking a blow at such a profitable part of England's economy couldn't hurt. But this was madness – nobody attacked _Jamaica,_ for God's sake, nobody would dare. Taking down a ship at sea was one thing, but to burn the very Kingston slave market, right in front of the Lord Governor's nose and half the redcoats in the Caribbean –

 _Bloody hell, I think I like them._ He found he was grinning despite himself, without the faintest notion why. Inside, the market was madness. The slaves were kept chained up overnight awaiting more buyers in the morning, with only enough water and food to make sure they were still in saleable condition, and nothing at all in the way of sanitary facilities or comfortable sleeping quarters. A crowd of men in masks were running hither and thither, whooping and shouting and firing guns, clearly as cover and distraction while their compatriots used hatchets and picks to break the shackles of the barracks. Freed men spilled out in every direction, some of them pulling women by the hand; Killian saw one man with a child who couldn't have been more than two, covering her head as another blast went off at close range, throwing up a gout of violent orange flame at the far side of the pickets. The pirates were yelling and trying to point them out the postern that they had chopped down, toward the road that led into the mountains. That way, if they ran long enough, they might reach the Maroons, and safety.

Something mad and madder was coming over Killian as he stared at the uproar, some of the slaves picking up the broken stakes to arm themselves as they could hear feet pounding closer and closer, soldiers on the way to stop the escape by any means necessary. Then the gate rattled and one of the guards ran in, raising his gun and pointing it at the man with the little girl in his arms. He bellowed a command for the slave to stop and return to the holding pens, or else.

The man clearly had no intention of stopping. The guard swung his arm up, training the muzzle on him – it was a shot of less than ten yards, he could scarcely miss, dead to rights on both of them, the whites of the little girl's eyes visible in the firelight –

Killian discovered at that moment that his own pistol was in his hand, he was checking the balky flintlock, cocking it with a whiff of powder, and bracing it on his arm. Then – he wished it had been more of a blur, so he could excuse it as merely a panicked reaction in the heat of the moment later, but his mind was completely, almost preternaturally clear – he pointed it at the guard's head. Pulled the trigger, waited a moment as the spark ignited, and fired.

There was a boom that sounded much louder to his ears than the rest of the noise, and he saw a bloom of blood explode in the guard's right temple, a gruesome concavity of bone and brain, as he stumbled, went down, and sprawled facefirst in the mud, twitching once or twice before he went entirely still. The slave with the little girl looked around madly, saw Killian, and their eyes locked. The man nodded once, fractionally. Then he turned and ran.

Someone else was yelling across the way, and Killian swung around to see someone pointing at him, one of the arriving redcoats, who had clearly witnessed him gun down a white man in defense of a slave. He fumbled for his musket, but the strap was tangled, and it took a moment to prepare anyway. He couldn't reload his pistol fast enough to get off another shot in time, and if he drew his saber and charged, any further hope of going unnoticed would vanish in the –

Then he saw another muzzle flash from directly behind the redcoat, heard the roar of a blunderbuss, and the man went down as if he'd been hit with a brick. Behind him, Killian caught a glimpse of a pirate, the one who had shot the redcoat – small and slight, wearing a mask like the rest, but with their eyes visible, flashing lucent green in the firelight. Eyes that, he thought for a mad instant, looked exactly like Miss Emma White's.

Before he had any more time to wonder about what was clearly a fevered delusion in the heat of battle, the pirate was gone. By the look of things, the crew had managed to liberate nearly all of the hundred and fifty-odd slaves awaiting buyers on the morrow – a loss which, reckoning a £30 average price per head, totted up as close to a £4500 punch in the pocketbook. Not bloody bad for one daring night raid, and one which even the wealthy plantation owners and slaving companies would feel; the complete write-off of an entire voyage might be absorbed among the various shareholders, but it would certainly stretch their margins for further failures very thin. He was almost laughing. Christ, he wanted to shake all their hands. If there was a pirate crew in the Caribbean that had no qualms about pulling down England's trousers directly, thus to display their own bare arses more spectacularly, things were about to become very interesting. Or –

Wait a _bloody_ second – what if – _what if –_

Whatever that thought might have been, or if it would have achieved a more fully formulated state, was never to be known. At that moment, something caught Killian a smart blow behind the ear, and the world exploded into bloody, blackening stars. He struggled to turn around, only to catch a second blow across the cheek, and he felt a sickening crack as the bone shattered. He went to his knees, trying to focus long enough to get a good look at his attacker, but couldn't. That was when the third blow took him over the head, the ground went out from beneath him, and the darkness came up to cover him, pulling him under like a siren with her lover, down and down, down and down, to drown.


	6. VI

**-VI-**

The first thing Killian knew was pain. It blazed across his face in a nauseous, red-hot spear from ear to ear, as his teeth felt like chips of fire in his skull and his eyes ached fit to burst, and finally the agony localized into somewhere in his right cheek, his groping fingers finding bruised, swollen flesh until he snatched them back with a hiss. Bloody hell, something was definitely broken. What had even _happened?_ He had a dim recollection of running, shouting, shooting, firelight, the kick of a pistol against his arm – someone falling, someone else behind them – it seemed very important, but he had been hit in the head hard enough to render the details quite unclear. Slaves, something about slaves. The market burning. All because of –

Killian's eyes flew open, which he instantly regretted, gritting and swearing through the lightning bolt across his face. At any rate, it did him an entirely negligible amount of good, seeing as wherever he was appeared to be darker than the Devil's armpit. It smelled like it too, some foul earthy reek of sweat and stale air and an underlying, ominous whiff of saltpeter. He was lying on something that felt like rough burlap sacking, and when he instinctively tried to bolt to his feet and run, he discovered that his ankles were tied, causing him to crash back heavily with another oath. His weapons were gone, unsurprisingly, but he was still in his battered, smoke-scented shirtsleeves and trousers, with no way to tell if his captors (because those ropes definitely suggested such an unpleasant class of person) had rifled his pockets for valuables. They'd have been disappointed, as he didn't carry any money or precious items (as if he even owned any). Nothing but –

Wait. _Wait._ He redoubled his search, pawing frantically as he realized that the chain wasn't around his neck. The chain with Liam's ring on it, his lucky ring, the one he had given Killian as a promise that they would survive, get out of slavery and into the Navy together. He supposed it had some incidental value, silver and garnet, but as a sentimental keepsake and token of hope, of his brother's unswerving love and belief in him, it was irreplaceable. Some common brigands had assaulted him, abducted him, removed him to this place of unmistakable nefarious criminality to do God only knew what with him, _and_ they had stolen the one godforsaken special thing he had managed to hold onto in twenty-seven turbulent and oft-terrible years of life. The insult could not be borne without reprisal or in silence, even considering the red-hot pain in his face. "HEY! BLOODY BASTARDS! GIVE IT BACK OR I'LL KILL YOU!"

"No need to shout, Lieutenant," a sarcastic voice said, fairly near at hand. "We're right here, we can hear ya. Ya might rupture somethin' else, ya know."

Killian peered furiously in the presumable direction of the speaker. It was still almost entirely inscrutable murk, but his eyes were adjusting, and he could make out enough dim silhouettes, hanging vines and jagged spears of stone, night wind rustling beyond, to think that he was in a cave. That would explain the somewhat shut-up quality of the air, if the brigands – the _pirates,_ he remembered with a flash of fury, thinking how he had almost begun to sympathize with the accursed miscreants – had found a convenient grotto in the jungle to use as a hideout. Bloody hell, Liam probably had no idea where he was, and for that matter, he had no idea where Liam was. They had lost each other in the melee even before he was knocked out, and if some more of these scurrilous ingrates had furtherly decided it a brilliant idea to ambush _him –_

"Where am I?" He wanted to keep up the shouting, or at least the threatening tone, but his face hurt too much, and it came out as a gulping croak. "Where's my brother? The devil do you bastards want with me?"

The two shadows apparently on guard duty glanced at each other and shrugged. "Guess ye'll find out, won't ye?" the second one said, recognizably a Scot. Christ, no wonder everyone hated the Scots (and also the Irish, but that was not germane to Killian's burning grudges at the moment). He also had a distinct feeling that he had heard that voice before, quite recently, but his head was too addled to be sure. "And it doesna go to be threatenin' to kill us when ye canna even stand up. Also, for that matter, we saved your fool life."

"The hell you did." Killian reached down in an attempt to loosen the ropes around his ankles, but immediately heard the thunk of two cocking pistols; evidently they could see in the dark much better than he could. He left off, seething, wondering if he could angrily hop at them and devise some other ill-conceived escape attempt on the fly from there. It did not seem likely. "You call _this_ saving my life?"

"Aye," the first one said. "The redcoat woulda beat your brains out – if you've got any – if I hadn't shot him for ya. You're welcome for that, by the way. Then cap'n had us take you here and stash you up while s – while he figures out what you're worth. That's where your ring is, by the way. We took it so your brother would know for sure that we had you."

"You're holding me for ransom?" Killian almost had to laugh. "Joke's on you, you pricks. We just spent all our money on the refit, we're completely skint."

"We imagine your brother would come up with somethin' good, if it was your life on the line. Cap'n says the two of you are right peas in a pod. Nothin' he wouldn't do for you, was it?"

"Oh, _really?"_ For some reason, this set off Killian's alarm bells. The only person he remembered discussing the subject of Liam with was one Miss Emma White, and that meant. . . _bloody hell, is nobody in this damn place what they seem?_ Whether she actually was a rich merchant's daughter with a side job in informing for the pirates, or had been a local spook in Captain Swan's service all along, he could hear that little dream of his going up in smoke as fast as it had come. He hadn't been sure before, as it seemed too much coincidence, but now he was. "And you two fine gentlemen would be off the _Blackbird,_ wouldn't you? Pleasure to meet you at last."

"Ah, you're a sharp one." The pirate who claimed to have shot the redcoat for him (though that was almost certainly another of their lies) sounded almost genuinely impressed. "What gave it away? Our fabulous wealth, dashin' good looks, or harems of adoring, beautiful women? You should consider joinin' up, you know. We could use a man like you."

"I'm nothing like you." Killian drew into a defensive ball, almost spitting the words. "Once you lowlifes extort Liam for my return, I'll be pleased to do exactly what we were engaged for, and hunt you all down like dogs."

There was a brief, marked silence as the two pirates considered that. Then the first one said, "Really. Then why'd you kill that guard?"

"What?"

"Come on. You don't think Cap'n told me to shoot the redcoat attacking you by accident? We both saw what you did to save that slave. You didn't come there to stop the revolt. That was why we got you out of there, and why we're ransoming you rather than just puttin' a bullet in you, even though we've been very well paid, or at least promised to be very well paid, to do just that. Seems to me we might have more in common than you want to admit."

"I. . ." His anger at them, despite his best efforts, was dissolving into confusion and shame. "It's none of your business."

"Really?" the Scot said. "Even if it was your life ridin' on it?"

"Bloody hell, we. . . we were slaves, all right? My brother and I. Our father sold us for a rowboat when I was eight years old. Technically indentured servitude, but the price of freedom is twelve pounds a man. We made four shillings a year, and the captain held back half that to 'cover the cost of keeping us.' If either of you cretins can do arithmetic, you'll recognize that a shilling is worth one-twentieth of a pound, so that would have been one-fifth of one-twelfth of our freedom earned per year. But with half of it garnished, that works out to one-tenth of one-twelfth of our freedom earned per year, if we spent absolutely nothing else on all the luxuries available to us with a whole twenty-four pence of discretionary income, which meant we could have saved to buy our freedom in, oh, a hundred and twenty bloody years, as opposed to just sixty. We lived a life as grim as any slave, and they don't even have the faintest chance of one day purchasing their liberty. Can you marauding jackshits possibly understand how it might matter to me?"

There was a second silence, of a rather different nature. Then the first one said, "So why'd you join the Navy, then? They're just slaves in nicer uniforms. The two of you should have gone pirate. Do what you wanted, as free men."

"Liam said we'd serve honorably. That we weren't going to be anonymous criminals choked to death at the end of a rope." Killian put his head between his knees, fighting a wave of pain that made him fear he was about to black out. "That's why we run our ship the way we do. We might be Irish gutter scum, but we're not hypocrites."

Neither of his captors had anything to immediately respond to that. He gagged, spitting something bad-tasting, until he heard a slosh, and a corked skin landed on the sacks next to him. "There. Rinse out your mouth a bit. It'll help with the pain too."

Killian considered refusing, to say he wanted nothing from them and certainly not their pity, but as another broadside hit, gave up his pride just for once. He fumbled the stopper out, took a deep gulp expecting it to be water, and coughed and spluttered everywhere as the deep, potent burn of finest-proof Jamaican rum hit the back of his throat like a fireball. This reaction evidently amused his compatriots, but he ignored them, wheezing, until his lungs stopped trying to turn themselves out and he tried again. He knew he probably shouldn't, but God, it had been so long since he had had a proper drink, and even though the alcohol scorched the raw cuts in his lip, he sucked and swallowed until a rather more pleasant lightheadedness had replaced the first sort, and he did not feel his damaged countenance quite as keenly. "S' good," he said indistinctly. "Thanks."

"Easy there." One of them came forward to take the skin back. "Just like you, it's not goin' to run away. Try not to run into any more musket butts with your face for a while, and you should be back in top form before you know it."

"Thanks," Killian said again, tongue feeling like heavy, wet wool. He lay back down, the cave at a slightly unsteady tilt above him; between this and the blow to the head, he'd be astonished if he ultimately remembered anything from this ordeal. That might be for the best. Sitting in the dark, confessing the most shameful secrets of his past to a pair of dishonorable criminals holding him for money, who would probably threaten and blackmail Liam for his safe return, who for all he knew had hit him themselves and set up this entire farce to get him to trust them. . . but why would they do that? They'd already frankly admitted that they wanted a ransom, they'd tied him up, they'd made no bones about who they were, not even trying to pretend they weren't from the _Blackbird_ when he copped onto them. It was almost as if they knew exactly who they were, and yet they were not afraid of anything he or anyone could do to them. But how could men who constantly lived one step ahead of the gallows have that kind of confidence? He didn't suppose it was coincidence that they had lit no torch or lantern, had not let him see their faces or offered names, even false ones. They figured he would betray them too, if given the first chance, and given what he had both been shouting aloud at them and thinking in his own rattled head, it was hard to blame them for this conclusion. Yet somehow, it rankled.

Some indeterminate time passed. He had vague notions that if he could convince his captors he was asleep, they might relax their guard or even doze off themselves – it had to be very late at night – and he could then make a run for it. As if he could get six yards drunk, tied up, with no idea where he was or where Kingston and the _Imperator_ were in relation to it, and with one eye almost forced shut from the swelling in his cheek. No, better to wait until they marched him out to transact his ransom and release. The hell _was_ Liam going to pay it with, though? He had already used the emergency money sewn into his jacket on that last-minute bribe to avoid supper with Gold and that Mr. Plouton from Bristol. Fuck, and he had only warned Liam about Nolan, not about Booth too. If news of this entire debacle got back to Gold –

It did not escape Killian that the man supposed to keep the governor from finding out about them, i.e. Nolan, was expecting payoff from the cargo of the vessel sailed on by the two nincompoops presently holding him prisoner, and that a good deal of that expected cut might end up being whatever Liam rendered to them for his freedom. _We should have just allowed Nolan to burgle us directly and eliminate the middleman._ He had no doubts about Liam's willingness to ransom him no matter what it took, but he had of course been through the _Imperator's_ accounts recently himself, and knew exactly how much money they had left – or rather, didn't. About enough to buy half a pig, which he had a sneaking suspicion the pirates would not regard as sufficient tribute for a prisoner of his importance. _Liam should just buy the pig. That way he could at least have bacon for breakfast before they arrive to arrest him._

Killian stared at the roof of the cave, which seemed very far away. He could hear rustles in the thick tropical jungle beyond, the shirring of crickets and nightbirds, the distant splash of running water. He told himself he would stay awake, snatch at any chance that came. Be worth saving. But he didn't. He slept.

* * *

"I am sorry, madam," Captain Liam Jones said, staring at Emma with the most unfriendly expression she had ever seen on a man's face in her life – and considering her experience, that was a high bar to clear. "You want _what_ from me?"

"Not me," Emma said. "Captain Swan. He's sent – well, rather forced – me to negotiate with you." She let her lip tremble slightly, finding it easier than expected. If Will and Macintosh weren't looking after Lieutenant Jones properly up at the cave, this could really get messy, as if it wasn't enough already. "He was one of the merchant captains who did business with my father before he turned pirate, so he knows me. When he discovered I was here. . ." She turned tear-filled eyes up to Liam. "Please, just help me and your brother."

The captain's manifestly forbidding air softened somewhat, and grudgingly. "Believe me, Miss White," he said in clipped tones, "I very much intend to settle the score with this villain, and in full. Did he give you any proof of these outrageous allegations?"

"Only this." Emma opened her hand, letting the silver ring on its chain spill onto the table. "Do you recognize it?"

Captain Jones stared at it, stricken. "Christ, that's my old ring, the one I gave to Killian. Did you see him? Do you know if he's all right?"

"I – I didn't, but they said he was in a bit rough shape when they pulled him out of the slave market. Most certainly alive, though."

Liam flinched. He looked as if he had spent a hellish several hours combing through the burned wreckage in search of his brother, an ugly gash on his forearm going ignored in his urgency and his sweat making pale tracks through the mask of soot and grime on his face. Certainly nobody would have identified him as a Royal Navy captain on sight, especially in the disreputable tavern where they were meeting. After a moment he said, "Miss White, I will do everything I can to protect you as well against this bastard, if you'll help me get my brother back. Did he happen to name what he supposed was an adequate extortion for Killian's safe return?"

"Aye," Emma said, watching him closely. "Ten pounds."

"Ten _p – "_ Liam stopped, swore, and looked set to bolt to his feet then and there. "Bloody hell! My entire _salary_ is sixty pounds per annum, and the next quarter won't be paid until I get back to England besides! How does he imagine we have endless wealth lying around for this, exactly?"

Emma bit her lip. "I don't suppose realistic estimations of what you can afford to pay figured very much into his calculations, Captain, no."

"Christ," Liam said again, sinking back into his chair and looking more than ever like an extremely out-of-temper bear waking in the spring after its winter sleep, starving and irascible and distinctly at odds with the rest of the world. "I can't leave Killian in the hands of that maniac, and there's not a single pound left aboard the _Imperator_ in sterling, much less ten. We'll have to solve the problem some way else. What do you think are the prospects for an attack?"

"I wouldn't advise it," Emma said quickly. "He's promised to kill your brother if he hears so much as a gunshot. He's a very dangerous man, Captain. You really mustn't cross him."

Liam Jones looked even more sickened at the thought, and once more, Emma had to fight that unwelcome guilt. She surely had not expected the lieutenant to turn up to the attack on the market, much less shoot a guard at point-blank range to allow a slave to escape, and once she'd ordered Will to take out the redcoat attacking him and they removed him to his present location, she had come up with this plan. If it worked, it would allow them to turn a tidy profit, find out what kind of man Liam Jones really was, and appear to fulfill their end of the bargain with their mysterious employer, without actually having either to kill anyone or to attack the _Imperator_ directly. It was also just as likely to induce the entire Navy to come after them breathing fire, but as they had already ensured the entire army garrison on Jamaica would be doing the same, a few more enemies wouldn't make much of a difference. She would be happy to point them after the violent, vanished Captain Swan, as long as they swore to keep Miss Emma White out of his depraved clutches. And if she did have to provide a real description of the man, she would be sure to give them Felix's.

"Very well then," Liam said grimly, having chewed over his dilemma for a long moment. "I'll have to ask Lord Archibald Hamilton for a short-term loan. Enough so that it looks like the full ten pounds, but isn't. Send a man to take it to the drop-off point with a pistol in his coat, retrieve Killian, hand over the money, then shoot the other bastard, take it back, and get the blazes out of there. If we play our cards right, the only further casualty tonight needs to be one more bloody pirate, and I have a feeling the Caribbean won't miss a few of those."

"He wouldn't be so foolish as to send only one man to return your brother," Emma said. "The rest would be heavily armed, and they'd shoot both the man with the money and Killian before they could get to the other side of the clearing. Just pay him, Captain. Lord Archibald isn't a stranger to doing that anyway, and might willingly give you the ten pounds if he thought it would make a friend of Captain Swan. The man is a very bad enemy, trust me."

Liam cogitated over that for a short while more, still looking as if he had just bitten into a rotten apple. Then he said, "Fine. I suppose we have to pay a call to the governor's mansion at an unsociable hour. Let's go."

They got up, heading out into the uneasy, wakeful streets of Kingston. Nobody had slept through all the commotion, and were peering fearfully through their shutters, as if in anticipation of being slaughtered in their beds by a pack of bloodthirsty negroes. Liam insisted that Emma take his arm and stay close to him, his free hand never far from the hilt of his sword, and they were stopped several times by the redcoat patrols turning the city upside down in search of the perpetrators. Which they would not find; after the raid, Emma had sent Will and Macintosh up to the cave with Killian and the rest of them back to the _Blackbird_ with the happy extra burden of the slave market's strongbox. If they were lucky, it would still have that day's takings in it, a combination of coins, jewels, promissory notes, gold or silver ingots, chunks of indigo, Spanish doubloons, and the other assorted currency of the Caribbean, and that might be enough to content them even without the added bonus of a second take. As well, it would further twist the knife if those profits were lost, make the entire venture a crushing failure for the slave traders. She wondered suddenly if Liam was at all upset about this. Did he know that Killian had been on the slaves' side in the whole thing? Had he been? Who _were_ these two, anyway?

They finally reached Lord Archibald's villa, though there was no need to wake him, as he was sitting in a nightshirt and dressing gown and receiving updates from his grim-faced underlings. He was startled to see them, naturally, but once they had explained the situation, he paused, then waved all his servants out. When they were alone, he said, "So this rogue has demanded ten pounds as the price of your brother's safe return, Captain? The same one responsible for visiting such terror and mayhem upon Kingston tonight?"

"The same," Emma assured him. "I believe Captain Jones and I are united in believing it would be most prudent to pay him and make him Your Excellency's friend, rather than risking his continued enmity. Who knows what he might be capable of, left unchecked?"

"Aye, but. . ." Lord Archibald was a Scot, as she had noted earlier, and thus the abrupt spending of large sums of money on short notice was against the grain of his inner nature. _"Ten pounds?_ Is there any way to barter him down to a rather more reasonable figure for one lieutenant?"

"That one lieutenant is my brother," Liam said, almost in a growl. "I'm not taking chances with his life to save you a few pennies. If Your Excellency will not put up the funds, shall I have to ask down at the _Diamond_ and the _Jamaica_ instead?"

Lord Archibald glanced sharply at him, as he was certainly an adroit enough politician to catch the implicit threat in this: if Liam went to the captains of those ships, they might accidentally end up revealing what amounts the governor had paid _them_ to stay out of his business, and then quite a number of important people would be sure to investigate just what that business actually was. After a moment, looking outfoxed, Lord Archibald said, "No, of course not. And I would be remiss not to do everything in my power to save a fellow officer of the Royal Navy. Please excuse me, I will consult with my secretary."

With that, he exited stiffly, leaving Liam and Emma by themselves. They were silent, until Liam turned back to her. "What do you suppose he's hiding? Other than the fact that he pays off pirates, as that's scarcely a secret by now."

"I'm not certain," Emma said, low-voiced in the event of eavesdroppers – never something to rule out in a powerful man's house. "I only have – well, a suspicion, really. But we have rather started to suspect that he is a Jacobite."

Liam looked at her sharply, clearly catching the openly treasonous implications of this. She waited, hoping to see how he would react when thrown this explosive bit of information: where did his utmost loyalty lie? With the crown of Britain, rushing to report a governor possibly working to actively undermine King George, himself, to see who would pay the most for this valuable intelligence, or elsewhere? But whatever the answer might be, it was not immediately apparent. Instead, the captain whirled on his heel and said, "He could be a bloody Hottentot for all I care, but if he doesn't get back with that money soon, that could damn well change."

Fortunately, Lord Archibald's return was expeditious, carrying a heavy sack sewn up with the clinking weight of coins. But as Liam reached for it, the governor held it back. "I must caution you, Captain, in the name of good business for everyone. If I am to be paying this sum, at least part of it requires you to report to Antigua that this was in no way my fault, and that I made all good-faith efforts to restore public order and punish the perpetrators. Otherwise, I might be regretfully compelled to open an investigation into the curious allegation made by one of my men, that they saw you _and_ your brother assisting, say, not the side that loyal British subjects and commanders of a British warship would have been expected to. Do I make myself clear?"

Liam stared at him, lips white. "I can assure you that there is no merit to such an accusation. It was madness, nobody knows what they saw, so I do hope you are not taking one man's wild fable as proof that we are somehow disloyal to the king or the – "

"Of course not." Lord Archibald smiled graciously. "It is, as you say, slanderous. But if Antigua should grow suspicious due to a less-than-favorable report from you, and were to dig up more details of the incident, I daresay they might be compelled to look into it for protocol's sake, don't you? As I said, that is merely why this is in the name of good business for all."

The captain stared at him icily for a moment longer, then jerked his head once, in the tersest of imaginable gestures otherwise recognizable as a nod. Lord Archibald dropped the sack into his hand, and Liam stashed it inside his coat, then jerked his head again, this time at Emma. With a sweet smile to the governor, thinking it best to make their exit before he started wondering exactly why the two of them were there together, she moved to take Liam's arm, feeling his rage vibrating silently through his entire body. When they were on the street again, she said, "Well if you yourself are a traitor, there's no easier way to throw smoke over your motivations than to hand in other traitors so they don't suspect. In which case, him being a Jacobite makes even more sense than it did a moment ago."

"I suppose I shouldn't be bloody surprised that even in the depths of a crisis, they all have to make sure they get their money's worth," Liam growled. "And I would take great care, mistress, with inferring that either myself or Killian are traitors."

"Of course, that's not what I meant. Only that if Lord Archibald can deflect suspicion onto literally anyone rather than himself, while simultaneously improving his own standing, it's a convenient way to keep his subversive activities secret."

Liam snorted again, looking at her critically. "How on earth does a merchant's daughter from Charlestown come to know so much of politics and intrigue? Just another result of growing up at your father's knee? No son to train for the business instead?"

"I – I have a brother," Emma said, startled into the admission. "Much younger than me, so I – I was groomed as heiress. He reads law, hopefully he'll make a solicitor."

"You have a little brother too?" Liam's suspicious, irascible expression softened just slightly. "Then you'll understand why I'm doing this, aye?"

"Aye," Emma said, half to herself. She had of course always conducted her piratical activities to fund Charles' education and Henry's upkeep, and stumbling onto this unexpected common ground with the man she was supposed to kill in the name of saving the Indies from his tyranny was most disquieting. If nothing else, she had seen enough to know that the deep love and loyalty between the Jones brothers was completely genuine, and their overriding instinct was to keep each other safe and make as decent a life as possible – only they had chosen to do so within the Navy, not as pirates. Nowhere in this did there appear to be the interest in sadistic and evil brutality, with a side of world domination, that had been promised back in the Turks, and a man who was furious at having to take a fairly routine bribe from a governor did not easily fit the profile of someone who did far worse for fun. He hadn't cared if Lord Archibald was a Jacobite or not, just that he gave him the money to secure Killian's release. As they sped up, Emma leading the way to where "Captain Swan" had "told her to meet," she said, "This may be a bit of a strange question, but do you. . . do you have any enemies?"

Liam glanced at her again, confused and defensive, as he gave her a hand over a fallen log. "Why do you ask?"

"Only what Lord Archibald seemed to think he was threatening you with back there. That someone might think you weren't on England's side."

"They'd be wrong," Liam said shortly. "As I said. Though it is true that certain parties among the high command have taken our shipboard policies as a threat to the very fabric of Great Britain, and spent rather a ludicrous deal of time and effort on finding a way to discredit us."

Now _that_ was interesting. "Oh?" Emma said, as guilelessly as possible. "Who?"

"Is that something you really need to know, Mistress?" His tone was still courteous, but it had turned unmistakably warning. "I am beginning to wonder just how deep this association between you and Captain Swan actually runs. Why should I tell you something damaging that you could convey to a man who has proven he means no good?"

Bluff called, Emma was forced into some hasty assurances that she had no interest in working with the pirate beyond giving him his money and getting him to go away – as soon, of course, as they had safely retrieved Killian. She was surprised to discover that she meant it. Hopefully his injuries weren't too bad, though to judge from the way the redcoat had gotten in a few good blows before Will had shot him, Lieutenant Jones was probably not looking the most fetching that he ever had in his life. Well, then, that was no matter. A broken nose never killed a man. He'd heal.

They reached the clearing below the cave, the agreed-upon rendezvous point, and Emma put two fingers in her mouth to whistle. Liam, for his part was glancing back and forth as if trying to place something that kept just eluding him. As she was watching the thick tropical undergrowth, waiting for it to rustle, he said abruptly, "How did you know there would be a clearing?"

"I – what?"

"Earlier, when we were discussing the logistics of rescuing Killian. You said that Captain Swan wouldn't be foolish enough to send only one man to return him, and that if we tried to keep the money, both that man and Killian would be shot before they could get to the other side of the clearing. Those were your exact words."

"I only meant it as a figure of speech," Emma said, even as she was starting to feel the hairs prickle on the back of her neck. "I had no way of knowing there'd actually be one."

"Didn't you?" Liam surveyed her flatly. "You know, I've had an odd feeling about you this entire time, Miss White, and I must say, you're not doing much to convince me otherwise. I told myself it was just worry and concern to see Killian safe that was clouding my judgment – but I don't think it is, is it?"

"Captain, you're mistaken." Emma shot a frantic glance up the hill, looking for Will and Macintosh with their prisoner. "My name is Emma White, I'm from Charlestown, you can ask any merchant from there, they know me, they've seen me in Leopold's house. Consider this sensibly. Don't do anything rash."

Liam swung his musket off its strap. "Give me a good reason."

She opened her mouth, with no idea of what she meant to say. But at that moment, mercifully, there was a crunching and crackling from above, and Will and Macintosh, wearing the masks from the raid on the slave market so their faces couldn't be seen, marched a bruised and battered Killian Jones into sight among the thick green scrub. Liam's ragged exhale of breath at seeing him was palpable, as the two of them locked eyes and he shouted, "I'm here, Killian! I'll get you out of there, hold on!"

"Liam?" Killian looked stunned, then dazed with relief. "Bloody hell, how did you find me?"

"No matter. We have the money for your release." Liam took it out of his coat, and shook it so everyone could hear the clink of silver. "Ten pounds, as agreed. Now let him go."

"Throw it up here," Macintosh said, "and we will."

At the sound of his voice, Liam went completely still for half a second. Then he cocked his arm back, threw the bag of money in a swooping, elegant arc – and then, the instant Killian was out of the way, as Macintosh was reaching up to catch it, Liam lifted his musket to his shoulder, sighted down the long barrel, and fired.

The sound was like thunder in the glade, the muzzle lighting up with a dazzling flash, as Macintosh yelled and stumbled, the money flying out of his grasp. Killian snatched it out of the air like a striking cobra, skidding down the incline and into Liam's arms, as his brother put him behind him and drew another pistol out of his jacket, aiming it back up the hill and pulling the trigger as Will dived for cover in the nick of time. Everybody was yelling, the racket sounding crazy to Emma's ears, as Liam grabbed Killian by the wrist, started to run, and she had a split second to decide whether to pursue them and the money, or try to get up the hill to see if Macintosh was all right. Considering what was at stake, and the overwhelming need for them to get out of there now, the choice was almost simple. Arms thrown over her head in case Liam fired a final parting round, hearing them vanish into the brush with her hard-stolen money, Emma lurched forward and clawed up the muddy rocks and roots. Bloody, bloody, _bloody_ hell –

"What in damnation just happened?" Will bellowed, as she reached them. "Thought you said you'd be sure there was no shooting!"

"I'm sorry, he – " Emma started, stopped, and shook her head grimly; he could see what had gone wrong just as she could. Both of them crawled toward Macintosh, who was swearing violently enough in extremely vulgar Scots that it didn't appear to be fatal. Still, when she ripped open his shirt, there was enough blood to make her heart skip a beat. The ball had pierced the left side of his lower ribs and exited cleanly out the back, and while it had managed to avoid hitting anything vital, torso wounds were notoriously dangerous and prone to complication and infection. Trying to get back to the _Blackbird_ with an injured man in tow, ahead of an extremely angry and thoroughly alarm-roused _Imperator,_ was going to be the devil of a feat. Their only hope was that it would take Liam and Killian just that bit of extra time to get a larger vessel under sail, find their position, and reach it. The _Blackbird_ had a strong advantage at sea, lighter, faster, familiar with the region, and more maneuverable. But if they couldn't get there first, they were sitting ducks for all those guns. _Bloody hell._

"Help me get him up," Emma panted, as she and Will draped Macintosh's arms over their shoulders and hoisted their wounded compatriot upright. She determinedly pushed the thought out of her head as to what Felix would make of them returning empty-handed, without the promised bounty for Killian's release, and worse, the _Imperator_ clearly knowing exactly who they were and closing in for the kill. She shouldn't have pushed her luck so far with Liam, but he had proven to be far more formidable than she thought, potentially because he was indeed an honest man. Dishonest men were predictable in their greed and thus could be anticipated for and played around, but he of course would be the one exception to the rule that everyone in the Caribbean was out to make the biggest profit as fast as they could, by absolutely any available method. God, what a mess. And she alone was responsible for getting them into it.

They took a different trail down the mountain and around the back of the city walls, Macintosh groaning in pain and Emma and Will's arms burning with the strain of carrying him while also running as fast as possible. As they passed the harbor overlook, she could see the distant silhouette of the _Imperator_ alive with noise and shouts, still at anchor but clearly not about to be for much longer, and the sight spurred them to renewed speed. There were loud voices and flaring torchlight on the wallwalks above, and the sudden boom of cannons from the fort was enough to nearly deafen them. That had clearly been a warning shot, as there was no apparent enemy to fire on – yet. But with an entire cargo of escaped slaves on the loose and knowledge of a pirate crew close at hand, they must be prepared for the worst.

After a few harrowingly close shaves, Emma and Will made it off the Kingston headland and over the spur of the hill, down the other side toward the dark shape of the _Blackbird,_ still sheltered in its hidden anchorage. Macintosh had lost enough blood to be barely conscious at this point, and Will was left to hold him up as Emma waded into the waves and signaled the crew as forcibly, and as silently, as she could. Her nerves were scraped raw with the knowledge of pursuit by the time the longboat was launched, retrieved them, and ferried them out and aboard. "Get up every scrap of canvas she can take. We need to get out of here right now."

"Where's the money?" That was Felix, eyes glittering ferally at her in the light of the deck lanterns. "You have it for us, Captain, surely?"

"Aye," Emma snapped. "Do as I ordered. Will, take Macintosh to – to Brennan." He was the closest thing they had to a proper surgeon, with his knowledge of cleanliness and medicine and healthful customs, and perhaps could keep that wound from suppurating until they found actual treatment for it. "The rest of you, ready the guns. We might have to shoot our way out of this, and I'm not sailing out there like fish in a barrel. All of you! Now!"

Gratifyingly, this induced them to hop to it instantly. Will disappeared below, and everyone else rushed either to get up the yards or man a cannon. The anchor was raised and stowed, and they gained speed quickly on the strong night wind, clipping a wake white as they headed for the mouth of the inlet. Now came the tricky part. To get into the open sea, they would have to cut out into the main shipping lane, which would put them directly in the line of sight for any, say, angry Royal Navy man-of-war coming up hard astern. They couldn't even be sure of the other ship's position, and Emma ordered all the lights and lanterns doused, so they were sailing completely dark. Surely the _Imperator_ wouldn't waste shot on an invisible target, so –

The first thing she heard as they swung out in a hard-larboard tack was the boom and whistle of bow chasers. There were splashes distantly arrears, but not _that_ distant, and she could see the white sails of the other ship like a stark specter against the velveteen blackness of the night. "What the devil?" she shouted. "No bloody third-rater can make that kind of speed!"

"Look at her waterline, Captain." Next to her, Gaston pointed with the spyglass. "She's riding at least a fathom higher than usual. They must have shed all the extra weight they could."

"Christ." Emma whirled around. "We'll outrun them, then. More sail."

"We've got up every stitch she can take in this breeze, any more and she'll start luffing." Gaston snapped the spyglass shut with his chin. _"Sacre bleu,_ madame. You made them very, especially mad, didn't you?"

Emma opened her mouth, decided she couldn't exactly argue, and heard the _Imperator's_ long nines boom again as her gunners kept trying the range. She had no idea if they were trying to sink the _Blackbird_ outright, especially as a pirate vessel afloat was naturally worth much more than one on the bottom of the ocean, but the legal fate for their kind was unmerciful on the best of days, and she had now indeed personally made them very, very mad. This was _not_ had this had been supposed to go. Jesus.

They began to stretch the distance as they took the wind, no longer able to hear the cannons behind them; it was, after all, the middle of the night, and with their lights out, the _Imperator_ could scarcely point its guns at a great black void and hope they accidentally hit their target. Still, Emma would not let up their pace, sighting over the stern again and again until the spark of the other ship's lanterns had vanished, and she could be reasonably sure that they had gotten safe away. She gave orders to hold their speed; they would be sailing all night. Where, she didn't yet know. Their cover had been blown, they were on their heels and on the run, their mark knew who they were and wanted them dead very badly, _and_ they had lost out on both the ten pounds and any reasonable assurance of Lord Archibald's friendship. She had had more disastrous nights as a pirate captain, but not many.

Scrubbing her face and swearing a few more times, in case she had missed any especially good oaths in the first go-round, Emma whirled on her heel and went below to check on Macintosh. He was in his hammock, bandaged up and in a poppy stupor, as they kept some on board ship for these sorts of incidents, and Brennan was rinsing his bloody hands in a bowl of water. On sight of Emma, he dried them on his trousers and said, "He should make it, Captain. That wound will require close watching, though."

"Aye. So I thought." Emma regarded her fallen sailor grimly. "Thank you."

Brennan inclined his head. "No trouble, truly. How'd he get it, by the by?"

"Someone shot him when the deal went bad," Emma said, lips tight. "The man I was supposed to take down, the commander of the _Imperator._ Captain Liam Jones."


	7. VII

**-VII-**

"I'm sorry," Brennan said, staring at her. "Did you say _Liam?"_

"Aye." Emma frowned. "Why? Do you know him?"

"It's only – that's my son's name. Liam Jones. He'd be – seventeen now, eighteen? The one I lost in Charlestown. But you said he was the captain of the ship on our tail? I don't suppose there's any way it can be him."

"No, I wouldn't think. This man was grown, at least thirty. Besides, he had a younger brother, his lieutenant. Killian."

It was fortunate that Emma was looking directly at Brennan when she said this, as otherwise she might have missed the expression of naked shock that seared across his face. She knew in an instant that the names meant something to him, but just as quickly, that charming Irishman liar's mask had dropped back into place, smiling and shaking his head – yet not, she noticed, quite able to meet her eyes. "No, Captain, in that case I don't know them. Just a queer coincidence, it would seem. So, Macintosh is well for now, I'll bid you good night, then?"

"Aye," Emma said again, slower, with a long look to inform him that she knew very well she was being bundled out the door, and he should count himself lucky that she wasn't going to pry – yet – for details. A man's secrets were his own, his past as well; no one cared who you were, or had been, if you sailed bravely, fought hard, won treasure, and enjoyed the spending of it. But in this case, if her mysterious new crewmember clearly recognized the commanding officers chasing them, there would have to be an exception. Not now, however. They still needed to concentrate on outdistancing the _Imperator,_ and keeping Macintosh alive. But once they reached a safe haven, she very much intended to start asking a few pointed questions.

"Good night," Emma said aloud, with a demure smile. She stepped outside, shut the door – and nearly tripped over Merida, who had been holding up the bulkhead, clearly in wait of news. Upon seeing Emma, she quickly tried to pretend that she hadn't, but Emma smiled wryly. "He'll make it," she said. "He'll need to be quite a bit less stubborn for a while, though."

"In that case he's like to die anyway." Merida tried to disguise her shuddering breath of relief. "I thought it was supposed to be the case there'd be no fightin', though?"

"Aye, well, best laid plans," Emma said grimly, making her way toward the stairs. "The captain must have recognized his voice when he spoke, after our meeting in the governor's mansion. He'd already gotten suspicious of me, and. . . it went badly." She refrained from saying any more, wondering if Brennan was listening through the door and refusing to show her hand until she could ascertain precisely the nature of his connection. If Liam Jones had just been as blithely dishonest as everyone else in the bloody Caribbean, as she had been assured he was, this wouldn't have happened at all. He would have taken the money, winked and looked aside to let the pirates escape, gotten his little brother back, and everyone would be happy. The current circumstances being so spectacularly otherwise meant that things were about to get more dangerous than she or anyone had ever imagined.

"Well, it proves a great deal o' trouble could be avoided if Mac would shut up, eh?" Merida spoke lightly, but there was a shadow on her brow. "I'll just – nip in for a minute, then?"

"Go ahead." Emma waved permission, climbing back up to the deck and instinctively checking astern. No sign of sails. She was going to have to make a decision soon about their course, as they could not keep fleeing headlong west for much longer. They were already on the brink of the heavily patrolled Spanish Triangle – the seas that extended west to Mexico, north to Cuba, and due south to the Spanish Main and the ports of Veracruz, Cartagena, and Portobelo, the places where the mule and llama trains arrived with their priceless goods. Silver from Potosi, gold, pearls, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires from the Viceroyalty of Peru, porcelain, jade, tea, spices, and silk from the Orient, indigo, onyx, and timber from the Amazon forests, tobacco, and sugar from the _repartimiento_ plantations, copper and tin, and much more, all destined to be shipped to Havana and put aboard the treasure fleet that departed every year under heavy guard, devoured by the insatiable maw of the empire. As such, the Spanish took an extremely dim view of pirates, even more so after the legendary Captain Henry Morgan had plundered both Portobelo and New Granada some decades ago, and a lone brigantine under pirate colors, straying into their sensitive waters, would be dealt with most summarily. No matter if it had been a rogue agent who had hired the _Blackbird_ under the table in the Turks, the formidable Spanish protection detail, the _guardas costas,_ would neither know nor care. As well, the presence of a British Royal Navy warship, deep in enemy territory, would constitute a further threat. The war had ended barely two years ago, and nobody on either side had forgotten it.

Emma reminded herself that she didn't care if the _guardas_ sank the _Imperator_ or not, that it would be useful for her if they did, and made her way toward her cabin, sensing that quality time with her charts was going to be the night's occupation in lieu of sleeping. They could swing around hard into the wind, set a course north by northeast and into the Windward Passage, and from there due north to Nassau. It wasn't very appetizing. Returning without a score, with only a strongbox from the Jamaican slave market, with the most dangerous Navy enemy yet breathing fire up their arses, wasn't exactly the thing to inspire confidence from one's peers, especially when the idea of a female captain was a joke to most of the other pirates to start with. The only sure way out of their predicament was to make a stand and face the _Imperator_ straight, but that was suicide. Even if Gaston was right and she had shed weight, hopefully including some proportion of her guns, she still outmatched them two to one in firepower, and the largest bore the _Blackbird_ carried was eighteen pounds; a single direct hit from one of the _Imperator's_ heavy thirty-two-pounders could take out the mainmast. And once they were in close enough range to start shooting at each other, the _Blackbird's_ extra speed and maneuverability wouldn't do more than a fractional amount of good.

Emma cursed, letting the compass drop out of her hand with a thunk, at the same time there was a knock on the cabin door. "Cap'n?"

It was Will. "Come in."

Her first mate opened the door, let himself in, and shut it behind him. "Thought you should know," he said quietly. "Felix is canvassing. As soon as we make landfall, no matter where, he's of a mind to call for a vote on the captaincy immediately. And he thinks he can win it outright."

"Bloody hell." Emma had known that lurking disenchantment was going to come to a head, but when they were still on the run from their _last_ problem, Felix thought now was the perfect moment to openly challenge for command? "The crew's listening to him? I just took them to Jamaica to defy the governor, liberate the slave market, and now they're convinced – "

"They haven't decided," Will cautioned. "Some of 'em still think we should give you a chance to prove that you'll deliver on that prize you promised. But all Felix needs is a simple majority, and the fact that there's now a Royal Navy warship determined to sink us on sight isn't doin' any favors for your popularity, Cap'n. If I was bein' brutally honest."

"And they think it'll make a damn bit of difference if _Felix_ is in charge? That suddenly the Navy will decide not to kill them because they have a new captain?" Emma ran both hands through her tangled hair. "But Macintosh is popular among the men, they won't judge it well that I got him shot, and if I can't recover the situation in time. . . this would all have worked perfectly fucking fine if Captain Jones had just taken the money and – "

"Well," Will said. "He didn't. And I warned you already that somethin' reeked to high heaven about the whole business. Isn't it obvious that whoever hired you in the first place has some kind of private vendetta against the _Imperator_ and they're usin' us to settle it? Since when do pirates fight battles on behalf of Their bloody Lordships?"

"Apparently if they pay us enough." Emma picked up the compass again, the lantern rocking back and forth on its nail and casting dim, dancing shadows on the pile of charts. "There's nothing for it. We'll have to make back for Nassau. Perhaps we'll stumble on some halfway decent take on the way and distract the crew for a while."

"Aye, well, then what do we do for every voyage after? Sail lookin' over our shoulder, in case the _Imperator_ pops up and kills us dead?"

"Every pirate in the Caribbean sails with the knowledge we could die or be captured at any moment," Emma said flatly. "The _Imperator_ or the _Scarborough_ or any of the other bastards. There's plenty of water between here and there. If we lose them – or if the Spanish can help us with that – it might not matter."

She pushed away the ever-present faint discomfort she felt, when conspiring to be rid of the Navy ship. They were her enemies beyond a doubt, and pirates did not survive by sparing British authorities from tender sentiment, as the kindness would more than certainly not be returned. Instead she said, "When you and Macintosh had Lieutenant Jones prisoner. Did he. . . say anything? That could give you an idea of who might have taken a dislike to them?"

"Not much," Will said, after a brief hesitation. "About that, at least. He just said that he and his brother were indentured servants, sold by their father for a rowboat when he was eight. Dunno how long they spent in that state, but he took it quite personal. Said that was why he and the captain ran their ship the way they do, why he shot the guard as was attackin' the slave. I've got no idea who they really are, but they're no monsters."

"I see," Emma said slowly. Gears were starting to turn in her head – guesswork and stabs in the dark only, but given Brennan Jones' odd reaction earlier, one that she thought might just have a glimmer of truth to it. And given that Killian Jones had already openly broken the law to do what he had done in the middle of the slave revolt. . . if he could further be persuaded to see things from their point of view. . .

No, that was insane. If there was any meager chance of alliance, of joining forces and finding out who had framed them and why, it had vanished the instant Liam shot Macintosh in the clearing. Any mixed feelings the brothers might have had about their assignment, about their continuing participation in the corrupt colonial system and the brutality of the Navy, would have gone up in the far easier and straightforward flames of personal revenge. She had hurt them, she had lied to them, she had stolen Killian Jones' ring; she in fact still had it, tucked in her pocket, her fingers moving to thumb the smooth silver curve of the band. Besides, pirates and Navy officers simply did not make common cause; it was inconceivable, unthinkable. Paying off provincial governors to ensure smooth operations was one thing. But any Navy captain who helped the pirates, even for a day, became a pirate himself, subject to the same unyielding standards of justice as a man who had been one for ten or twenty years. Not that they would have. It was deeply and fiercely personal for them, the men who actually put their lives and crews on the line to catch pirates, in a way it was not for crooked, oblivious bureaucrats.

"So," Will said after a moment. "It's Nassau?"

"Unless you have a better suggestion? In which case, by all means. Perhaps you can throw your name into the running for the new captain?"

"Not my sort of thing," Will said frankly. "And as you know, I'm loyal to you. I just think if we turn tail and scurry back to New Providence now, we're never goin' to live it down, and it'll be the end of your career. But show the men you can still do what you say, and they'll follow you into hell." He paused. "We could do what we did with the _Valiant,_ you know. If you didn't think we could take 'em directly. It's hurricane season now. Likely another storm before long."

"The _Valiant's_ captain was reckless, foolish, and fatally inexperienced," Emma objected. "We're not going to be able to pull the same trick twice with the _Imperator."_

"Then we have to make a stand." Will looked at her levelly. "Get in among the shoals. A third-rater, even runnin' shallow on the draft, would be in trouble. Once they're grounded, they're a sittin' duck. We wouldn't even have to kill 'em. Blow a few holes in their hull, let God or the Devil do the rest. The men see you aren't afraid of the Navy, Felix and his lot have to stuff it, we don't risk an extended pursuit or firefight, and you return to Nassau as the conquerin' hero, not the feeble lady captain too weak to get the job done. That way we can still salvage something."

Emma didn't answer. Will was right, she knew he was right, and yet she still didn't quite want to, even after everything. It would be a dangerous chess game – letting the _Imperator_ get near enough to sight them, then leading them into peril, a deceitful will-o-the-wisp, among the treacherous sandbars and shallow reefs at the mouth of the Windward Passage. Not, however, beyond their capabilities. As Will said, all it would take was to get her run aground, and then. . .

Still, though. She was, at least for now, captain, and she could not put off a decision any longer; otherwise they _would_ cut her throat and throw her overboard for the sharks. "Fine," she said abruptly. "Set the course north by northeast. We'll be going into the wind, that will slow us, but take a few knots off anyway. We have to let them close some of the distance."

"Aye, Captain." Will looked relieved that she had heard sense. "Should I get a party armed for boarding?"

"Christ, no. On no account do we want them close enough for it to be hand-to-hand combat. Load the guns and light the lanterns. Go."

Will inclined his head and withdrew, leaving Emma staring down at the maps and feeling no more settled than she had before. If Liam Jones _was,_ improbably, the only decent captain in the Royal Navy, she might be doing more harm than good by helping his unknown enemies take him out – especially since they were undoubtedly her enemies as well. But the very fact of Liam's honesty might make him more dangerous than all the swindlers put together, as at least with those you could eventually throw enough money at them to make them go away. It might be expensive, and require you to have a lucrative enough enterprise to keep the funds on hand, but it was still reliable, and you could be more or less assured of its success. If someone's convictions could not be weakened no matter how much you spent, there was nothing to be done. In which case, their only chance of acquiring leverage over Liam would be to kidnap his little brother again, and this time not let him go. It was plain that Killian was his weakness, the one thing he would instantly break the rules for without a second thought, but they would have to be careful. It was never safe to rip out a man's heart and make him your mortal enemy, especially not the commander of the strongest warship in the Caribbean – even the _Scarborough,_ which the pirates feared for its too-close-for-comfort posting on Harbour Island, was only a fifth-rater. Turn Liam into the monster she had been told he was, and it would render a sordid self-fulfilling prophecy of the whole affair.

Pushing the thought of Killian Jones out of her head, Emma forced herself to coldly consider the logistics of the current plan. Even run aground, the _Imperator_ would be dangerous: she would, after all, still have full command of her gun batteries, and could strafe them if they ventured too close, overconfident and hungry for the prize. She would be hampered by having to tack into the wind, which meant she wouldn't steer easily; get her on a collision course with a sandbar and her crew might not be able to bring the big square-rigger around in time to avoid it, whereas the _Blackbird_ could run much more closely among the shoals. Then as Will had said, a few volleys could – if not sink her outright – at least disable her gravely enough to end the chase. They'd have to rake her head-on, avoid presenting a broadside target. Move the cannons fore, one concentrated blast. . . they'd take some damage themselves, but even the _Imperator_ only had two bow chasers, so it would be a fairly even match. Then they would sail and sail like hell.

Despite herself, Emma must have dozed, because the next thing she knew the light in the cabin was grey, they were still afloat, and someone was shouting for her. "Captain! _Captain!"_

Oh, bleeding Jesus. It must be time. She shot upright and grabbed her hat and jacket and saber, still buckling it on as she dashed across the floor to the deck, emerging into a sullen red dawn. But when she looked astern for the expected sighting of their pursuers, she didn't see it. Instead the vessel lay ahead, no more than half a mile, and not a Navy warship. She recognized the distinctive high stern, the black flag with its capering skeleton, and the snouts of extra guns bristling from all its ports – it too looked rather the worse for wear, large divots carved out of its siding and a sheet running loose on the foremast. But she felt a jolt of relief nearly strong enough to make her lightheaded; this changed everything. "It's the _Walrus,_ " she said. "Hail her."

The crews of each pirate vessel had already seen to this, closing the gap quickly as they rode up alongside each other, chop frothing white around their hulls. Someone threw a hawser, and they tied fast, men starting to appear on both decks to take stock. Emma shot another glance at the horizon – the last thing they needed was for the _Imperator_ to appear and take the pair of them at an extreme disadvantage – but it was still empty. Perhaps they had made a clean getaway after all, and she would be spared the unpleasantness of having to gun them down in cold blood. Ignoring the small prick of relief, and taking particular relish in the look on Felix's face, she waited until someone waved at her, then took hold of a line and swung over.

Captain James Flint was just emerging from belowdecks as she landed. He too did not appear to have slept much, though otherwise he looked the same as always: trim ginger ponytail and beard, cool, cunning green eyes, white shirt and buckled black cavalier's coat, offering her a hand with the impeccable protocol that his educated accent would betoken; the courtesies, after all, must be observed. "Captain Swan," he said. "This is a most surprising meeting. I would not have expected to see you out this far."

"Nor was I expecting to be here." Emma glanced around. Among the usual faces, she noted that Billy Bones was not one of them, and hoped he hadn't come to some unfortunate end; he, after all, was the one who had decided to ransom her when the _Walrus_ first set upon the ship she was traveling on. But she didn't want to ask in front of the whole crew, and needed to conference with Flint privately. "Do you have a moment?"

He paused, then inclined his head with his usual graceful, understated sarcasm, as if to enquire what on earth could possibly be more important, and led her across the boards into his cabin. Emma had always reminded herself that her impulse to see Flint and Miranda as the nearest thing she had to parents was entirely a result of her own scarred past, her own wistful desires, and not something that could be presumed to obtain in reality. With Miranda it was closer to the truth; it had been Mrs. Barlow's care and concern for her, her kind treatment over the weeks Emma spent at her house, that had convinced Flint to take her on as a sort of protégé, invest in the project of getting her pirate career off the ground. But with Flint himself, she had always had a sense that it was dangerous to get too close. That if you ever caught a glimpse into the true depths of him, it was already too late, and the darkness that lived in him would drag you down, drown you and dash you on the rocks. She had pieced together only small bits of his past, what had driven him from some sort of well-placed career in London to command of the most feared pirate ship in the Caribbean, but it was enough to know that digging any further would bring to light some demons that it was better – nay, critical – to keep shut and locked away.

"Drink?" Flint said now, holding up a bottle of rum. "If you've had half the night I did, you're likely to need it."

"I have, actually." Emma accepted it, pouring herself a few fingers and knocking it back; the warmth spread through her bracingly, made her forget her hunger and weariness. "I'm bloody glad to see you, but this is closer to Spanish waters than I'd have imagined you venturing."

"Perhaps I have an interest in Spanish waters." Flint put his boots up on the table and poured a glass of his own. "Or, more accurately, what sails on them. You wouldn't know, you've been away from Nassau a while – unless that's why you're out here? Trying to pre-empt me by yourself? That would not be wise."

"What?" Emma frowned. "Pre-empt what? I can assure you, we ended up here by accident. We sailed all night from Jamaica, and we. . . may have attracted the ire of certain newcomers to the Caribbean. Royal Navy, a third-rater. HMS _Imperator."_

"What?" It was Flint's turn to jerk forward, elbow splashing his glass of rum; he caught it with catlike reflexes and set it to a safer spot. "A _third-rater?_ What the fuck, that can't be. The Navy's still bankrupt from the war, they dry-docked half their fleet. There's no way they could afford to get a third-rater out here so fast, and then into pirate hunting. Are you sure?"

"I had an uncomfortably close inspection, so yes, I'm sure. There's something else. I was commissioned, in the Turks, to hunt her down. I'm not sure exactly who the man worked for, though by his accent and his money I took him for a Spaniard. He appeared on behalf of some mysterious 'patron' who wanted the _Imperator_ sunk, and her officers killed, at any price. We were in Jamaica to attempt it. To make a long story short, things. . . didn't exactly go to plan."

"Evidently not." Flint was watching her very sharply, mind clearly whirring behind those otherwise impassive eyes. "The hell were you even thinking, taking that job in the first place? It has trap written all over it. Unless you were somehow under the delusion you could – "

"Some of us," Emma said coolly, "don't have the leisure of choosing only the best men or prizes. They paid well, with the promise of more to come. Our kind of business is rarely improved with too many inconvenient questions."

Flint barked a short laugh. "True enough. But seeing as I just had an uncomfortably close shave of my own with the fucking _Scarborough,_ I can't bring myself to be thrilled about the presence of a _second_ of the Navy bastards. Are they still after you?"

"Most likely," Emma admitted. "We may have lost them in the night, but I don't know for how long. Certain members of my crew are. . . less than pleased."

Flint snorted. "Seems to be going around, then. I hope you aren't here to ask me to involve myself in your labor troubles."

"Because you have enough of your own?" It was just a guess, branching off his first remark, but the flicker of discomfort on his face was enough to show her she'd struck closer to the vein than he expected. "Where's Billy?"

"Billy. . . went overboard," Flint said, after a pause just long enough to make her certain that he was weighing what to tell her. "In the night. We're sad to have lost him, of course. He was a good man. And another reason why I'd just as soon not sacrifice the rest of my crew to the Navy, if it can possibly be helped. The mission remains paramount."

"Aye, this mission. Something to do with Spanish waters, when it might have been a Spaniard that hired me for mine?" Emma met his gaze levelly. Negotiating with Flint always required a certain amount of walking straight up to the lion and prying its jaws open, regardless of the threat (always considerable) that it would then bite your head clean off. "I've just shared with you what that was, perhaps you feel inclined to return the favor?"

Flint hesitated for a long moment, before removing his boots from the desk and leaning back in his chair. "It's true I could use a partner," he said. "And there's plenty we could in fact do for each other, if we took a mind. Do you truly have no notion why I'm out here?"

"As you said. I've been gone from Nassau for at least two months."

"News travels." Flint shrugged. "News such as this, especially. The blasted island has been talking of nothing else since we set out. I would have preferred it otherwise, but the cook – " He caught himself. "Never mind that. Does the name _L'Urca de Lima_ mean anything to you?"

"That. . ." Emma was momentarily baffled, then stunned. "What – you can't mean – "

"I assure you that I do." Flint smiled grimly. "And as well that I have an excellent plan. Due to the war, it's been several years since the Spanish treasure fleet has departed from Havana, so they have a much larger haul than usual. Twelve ships, and they're already quite late in leaving; they're behind schedule, and they're cutting corners. The _Urca_ is sailing as the _almirante,_ the rear guard. Due to fascinating adventures which we need not go into, we have obtained a copy of her course and schedule, and we know where she will be stopping on the Florida coast to resupply. The rest of the fleet will already be ahead of her, in the Atlantic, and unable to reach her, or even know that anything is amiss. One good, swift, clean strike, and she's ours."

Emma realized her mouth was open, and shut it. This had been a pirates' dream for decades. The Spanish Pacific fleet sailed from Manila, in the Philippines, to Acapulco, in Mexico, with the bounties of their trade in the East; their cargo was ferried overland across the peninsula and put aboard the Atlantic fleet, which took it back to Spain with the Central and South American goods. Many an enterprising swashbuckler had tried to overpower a Manila galleon, only to discover that their reputation as floating, impregnable fortresses was well-founded, and their luck had not been any better on the other side of the ocean. And Flint thought he could just – could just – and he had the gall to reprimand _her_ for biting off more than she could chew?

"If you're going to call me a madman, rest assured that I have heard it already," he said genially, seeing the expression on her face. "So how about we merely skip to the part where you tell me if you're willing to sail in consort with me, assist me in taking her, and win yourself a share of an unimaginable prize? To say the least, you'd never have to scratch and claw for respect again, _and_ it relieves you of the need to go picking fights with the Navy."

"As if this is any easier to accomplish!" Emma reached for the rum, thinking she might need several more swallows to discuss this with a straight face. "Even the _Walrus_ and the _Blackbird_ together aren't a match for a Spanish man-of-war. How do you think we could possibly – "

"No," Flint agreed. "Not if they knew we were coming and had time to prepare for us. But one ship, taken off guard and vulnerable with half her men ashore to fetch supplies and water. . . that, I think, should give us a chance."

"They'd all come charging back the instant they saw her under attack. I don't think we could – "

"Do you?" Flint asked mildly, with that same tone of noncommittal interest. "Does your crew share that opinion? After you've already confessed that you're having morale difficulties, and now you're going to ask them to turn away from more money than they've seen in their lives combined? Think carefully. The _Blackbird,_ after all, _is_ still tied up directly alongside. Shall we send it back a captain interested in this venture, or shall we not?"

Emma considered that not even heaven would be enough to help her if she ever forgot how paramount, and how ruthlessly cold-blooded, a manipulator Flint was. Which, eager for his help and protection at snuffing out the mumblings of mutiny among her crew, and getting them away from the _Imperator,_ she had just proceeded to do with literally flying colors. Of course his assistance would only come at a stiff price. She knew Flint respected her, in a peculiar way, because he treated her exactly the same as he did his fellow captains, with no condescension or conciliation that she was a woman. He'd never openly harm her; Miranda's aegis protected her, and she had the feeling that he might genuinely like her, a bit. But nor did that mean that it was ever safe to let down her guard, or think he would do her a favor from the goodness of his heart.

"Say I was to agree," she said. "Am I then supposed to believe that Spain would meekly suffer the pirates pillaging, or even trying to pillage, one of their treasure galleons? They would turn the water to blood hunting us down. Revoke the terms of the Treaty of Utrecht and demand that England make an immediate answer to this outrage. If you're worried about the presence of one third-rater now, I can damn well promise that there would soon be at least a dozen more."

"Which is why we need to make New Providence strong." Flint leaned forward, gripping the carved arms of his chair, eyes burning and intent on hers. "Build the walls of the fort. Buy new cannon. Garrison the harbor and the approach. Pay the captains and crews to unite as one, to stand against the storm. We can hold Nassau. We _must._ It is our land, our home, whatever chance for a future any of us will ever have. Spanish gold can buy that. Spanish pride can go hang."

Emma hesitated, wanting to make some kind of answer about how utterly improbable this was – that a slice of sandy nowhere in the middle of the Atlantic could repel anything close to a full-scale assault from either the English or the Spanish, that the quarreling and cutthroat pirate crews whose biggest concern was how much they could drink, fight, fuck, and fart their way through the blissful pleasures of brothel and tavern and gambling-den would ever come together in the name of a greater good, and that they could even get their hands on the money to do this in the first place, before Spain unleashed the very hounds of hell on them. Flint had an uncanny ability to make you forget all that – the logistics, the likelihood, the question of whether it should even be done in the first place – in favor of gripping hold of your heart, of disengaging your logical faculties, until you followed him unquestioningly into the abyss and never even saw the fall until it was far too late. As if her opinion would matter a damn to him, or change him from a course that he was clearly dead-set on, or even as if she had a real choice if she wanted to get back to the _Blackbird_ still remotely in charge of it. But in any event, she never got the chance.

Because, then, came the shout from above.

" _Sails!"_

* * *

They had been sailing all night, and Killian was almost seeing double with exhaustion – that was, if it wasn't from his much-abused face, which was still aching fit to split his skull. He wanted most sorely to go away to bed, to lie somewhere dark and quiet with a cool poultice on his cheek, but that was absurdly far down the list of possibilities at the moment, and instead he would just have to suffer. Everything since his rescue was a jumbled, throbbing blur. The crack of gunshots in the clearing, one of his captors stumbling – snatching the money, Liam grabbing hold of him, the careering descent down to the docks and ordering the _Imperator_ to make sail at once – veering out of the harbor toward the sheltered anchorages where a vessel up to no good might have elected to conceal itself – catching a lucky glimpse of their target and pursuing it with all speed and several rounds fired, until the bastards disappeared into the darkness like the slippery wee skanks they were and Liam and Killian were left with an important decision to make. Not whether to turn back; there was no chance of that. Rather, mainly, which direction the fugitives had gone. Guess wrong, and they lost them for at least another fortnight, in the best case scenario. In the worst, they never saw the evil buggering bridge-trolls again.

Killian had to keep his anger alive, to nurse his outrage at being abducted and held for ransom (they had never given his ring back, possibly not having the time after things went pear-shaped, or possibly because they had never intended to and were keeping it for their greedy selves) and everything else he insisted he felt, because he was terrified of what else might be there if he didn't. He was grateful to Liam for saving him, of course he was; Liam was a hero. But Killian was also well aware that they would not have been in that position at all if he had not rashly rushed off to all but sign their traitor's warrant and assist the slaves in the uprising. He had shot –had _killed_ – a man, a fellow English soldier. At least two others had seen it; those particular two had also been killed, but it could not be guaranteed that they were the only ones. Liam had had to borrow money from Lord Archibald to pay his ransom, and as they had not had a chance to return it before their unceremonious departure, they were now on the run with ten pounds of the governor's hard-bribed revenues and nothing at all to show for it. It had all been a delicate enough house of cards as it was, and Killian had been the one to push it over. Just because he couldn't bloody bear to stand by and close his eyes and ears to the slave revolt, because he couldn't stand the old, mortal wound it had left in him. _Fool. Fool. Fool._

His decision on their course (because for some confounded reason Liam still wanted his input on the matter) had been simple. They could not continue plunging westward and end up in protected Spanish waters, and therefore, neither could the _Blackbird._ It was fair to say that the pirates had also been taken off guard, and would have to find somewhere to regroup; of the present options, their home base of Nassau was the most logical. They would have come about, made for the Windward Passage rather than the longer and much more dangerous route through Spanish territory around Cuba, and used the trades to whip northwest to New Providence. Simple, straightforward, easy. All the _Imperator_ had to do was catch them before they got there.

They had, therefore, been battling for all they were worth over the last seven or eight hours, as sailing a ship of the line, even a stripped-down one, in near-total close haul was an ordeal to defeat even the most experienced of mariners. It was exhausting for the crew to constantly change the sheets and lines, tacking laboriously, until finally Liam gave the order to wear ship instead. Jibing was quicker and safer than tacking for a square-rigger, but the lateral movement was much greater, so that they must have resembled a drunken taverner lurching home late at night, and they swung from side to side enough to make even experienced seamen feel an unpleasant writhing in their guts. Mercifully, an easterly wind off the land kicked up sometime in the wee hours, allowing them to sail on broad reach and make up quite a bit of the time, but the entire crew was chafed, sore, sick, soaked, and otherwise thoroughly out of temper, and Liam and Killian had to smartly break up a few incipient scuffles. He felt like a hypocrite even as he did. _Aye, Jones, that's you. Noble guardian of law and order._

What was even worse was the fact that despite the trouble and woe it had already caused them, the worry and exertion for Liam, and the lurking possibility of far worse punishment, Killian could not even have the decency to feel properly chastened about it. He tried, the same way he kept stoking his anger at the pirates, but it kept crumbling before the irrefutable reality that he was not sorry. He was not sorry in the godforsaken least degree that he'd shot the bastard, he wasn't sorry he had saved the man, he wasn't sorry for any of it. He only regretted he hadn't been able to kill more of them. He hoped the market had burned to the ground and would never be rebuilt, even knowing how unlikely that was. It had just felt so bloody _good._ Exacting some small crumb of revenge for the torments of his childhood, doing what he felt to be right, not obeying anyone – not even Liam. That first sweet sip of the darkness had been a powerful one, and he already knew what sort of man he was, how easily and seductively he could be drawn in. Not again, it could not happen again. Yet it had also been happening with nearly clockwork regularity since their arrival in the New World, and his strength to resist it only seemed to be weakening.

Finally, unable to chase his own head in circles any longer and deciding that he had best find out just how badly he had cocked it up, he made sure all was in order, then ducked under the deck railing to the captain's cabin, where Liam had retreated to double-check their position. He rapped hesitantly on the door. "Li?"

A long, rather frosty silence ensued before its answer. "Come in."

Killian winced, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him, the floor abruptly tilting beneath his feet as they came about again. Liam was trying to keep the charts from avalanching off the table, and Killian lunged forward to catch a particularly wayward batch, which he loaded back into place with the rest. Liam did not acknowledge this, or even him, for another long moment, until Killian finally broke the silence. "Are you. . . are you very angry?"

"Angry?" A corner of Liam's mouth lifted. "That you've done the most foolish thing you possibly could have, knowing the consequences? That I would like to see just one, miniscule hint that everything I tell you doesn't go in one ear and directly out the other? That our lives and future might well be at risk because of it, even if we do by some miracle catch the pirates and put an end to this? Aye, I suppose I'm angry."

Killian winced again. "I. . . I'm sorry."

"I suppose you are." Liam consulted the navigational logs again, scribbling something down. "You're always sorry. And yet a day later there you are, doing something else, though I don't want to know how you'll top this. Bleeding Jesus! How hard was it to _stay on the ship,_ not run out and _join the slave revolt?_ Lord Archibald was asking questions about it. People saw you, saw _us._ Not even taking the _Blackbird_ might wipe that slate clean!

Killian cringed at the biting lash of his brother's words, his rage barely restrained behind his outwardly calm demeanor. Liam's temper burned long and slow; he was by far the most patient and cool-headed of the two Joneses, approaching situations with logic and restraint rather than emotion and passion. But when it finally reached breaking point, it could go off spectacularly, and the crises of the past few hours seemed to have pushed him there. He straightened up, knocking the overloaded table with a thump. "You know I'd throw myself into hellfire to save you, to do anything I could for you. But if you're insistent on jumping into the abyss yourself, how the devil am I supposed to do anything about that? How many times have we had this conversation now? How many times have I told you to behave yourself? Does anything I say even _matter_ to you? We can't free every slave on these islands! We can't put every embezzler out of business! The world is a hard, cold, cruel, unfair fucking cesspit of misery and corruption, and there is _nothing we can do about it!_ And if you carry on like this, you're going to destroy what little we _have_ managed to build for ourselves! The next time you disobey my orders like that, I will have you flogged, I swear to God!"

Both of them were caught short by this outburst, the potency of the threat searing the air, conjuring the specter of wrathful childhood memories – the ever-present threat of the whip, how Liam had taken it so many times so that Killian wouldn't have to. The thin white scars still latticed his back as a result; Killian had seen them many times, always with a grim knowledge that they should rightfully belong to him. He felt slapped, wondering if Liam had kept count, if he knew exactly how many strokes Killian owed him. Furthermore, flogging was the lightest of punishments that a lieutenant who had violated his captain's trust like that could be expected to receive. Add in shooting the English soldier, and the sentence was death.

"Jesus," Liam said after a terrible moment. "I shouldn't – I shouldn't have said that."

"You're right, though." Killian stared at the floor. "I put both of us at dreadful risk, and the damage can't be mended. If this was any other ship, I'd be in chains in the brig by now, and it would be no more than I deserve. Do you – do you want to flog me?"

"Jesus!" Liam said again. "Of course I don't _want_ to! But I want some sign that anything I tell you makes the remote bit of difference! I don't care if you're sorry. I just want to know what it's going to take to make you stop! I know you don't want to destroy our lives, Killian, especially when there are so many people bloody eager to do that for us! So why do you keep trying?"

"I. . . I just. . ." He could feel the burn climbing his cheeks. _It was the best thing I've ever done in my life_ was not an answer he could give to his brother. He was about to apologize again, before remembering that Liam had told him not to. "Something comes over me. I can't – I can't control it. You know how it is. With me and the darkness."

"Aye." Liam raked his hair, straggling loose from its queue, out of his eyes. "Well. Try harder."

Killian nodded, even as he was wondering what else he could possibly do. It was exhausting, fighting his first impulse all the time, trying to surface for a breath when something under the water kept dragging him down. "I'll make it right. I swear."

Liam looked at him wearily. "I don't want any more empty promises, Killian. I don't want any more apologies, anything. I'm not going to punish you, because I don't know what good it would do at this point. I need you to learn how to be strong enough to say no to the beast inside you, and I need you to learn it now. Otherwise, there's nothing I can do for either of us. Is that clear?"

Killian nodded again.

"Good." Liam blew out a jagged breath. "Please God let this be the last time we have to do this. Otherwise I'll – "

At that moment both of them tensed in response to a shout from the deck, glanced at each other as it came again, and then burst out the door, quarrel forgotten in the need to attend to the incoming action. The lookout was gesturing, and the other crewmen had seen it as well: one, no, _two_ ships ahead on the horizon, apparently tied up together, and both of them flying pirate colors. Since they had of course departed in darkness, this was the first proper look that they had gotten at their quarry; the _Blackbird_ was a two-masted brigantine, slim-hulled and swift, with some kind of white bird on her black flag. A swan, apparently, for its captain, flapping above the ominous _jolie rouge._ As for the other vessel –

"Christ," Killian said softly. "It's the bloody _Walrus!"_

Liam gave him a sharp look, but a second glance confirmed it; that vessel's infamous description was well-known among every captain in the Indies, Navy or otherwise. And while their accumulating transgressions might not be wiped out by taking down the _Blackbird_ alone, putting the most notorious thieves and rogues in the Caribbean – and their fearsome master, Flint – out of business was something else entirely. They had opened an oyster in search of a pearl, and found a nearly priceless treasure instead, and they stood frozen only an instant longer before wheeling in opposite directions and bellowing, _"Gun crews at the ready!"_

Ahead, the pirate vessels had spotted them as well, and there was a mad flurry as they cut loose, pouring maximum effort into raising canvas and getting underway on the freshening morning breeze. They had a head start, and both the _Walrus_ and the _Blackbird_ had an advantage on the _Imperator_ for speed, as well as considerably more familiarity with the waters. They veered out in opposite directions, each trying to draw pursuit; one Navy ship, after all, could not chase both of them at once. Liam had a split second to decide which one to commit himself to, and he did. "HARD TO PORT!"

The timbers groaned as they hauled over, further athwart the wind, picking up speed as they closed in on the _Walrus_ like the vengeful angel at the gates of Eden. The pirate ship still had the advantage, but the gap was narrowing, and everything held impossibly tense, wound too tightly to hold, the stillness of the air before the breaking of the storm, until Killian's own shout shattered it. "Bow chasers! Open fire!"

Another split second, impossibly long, as the fuse was lit – then the thunder and recoil as the long nines belched fire across the waves. The pirates must have had a good helmsman, because they just managed to avoid it; one of the shots, however, clipped the high poop deck. By then the Navy gunners had most of a second volley prepared, and at Killian's repeated command, let fly again. Windows shattered on the _Walrus,_ and an instant later, they saw the pirate vessel's gun ports cranking open. The _Imperator's_ men had only a few seconds to brace before the fine morning mist lit up with the mouth of hell.

" _Down!"_ There was a whistling and screaming overhead, then the world turned into a chaos of flying splinters as the first return fire from the pirates came drumming in. Twelve or fourteen-pounders, Killian thought automatically; nothing as heavy as what the Navy carried, but still capable of inflicting significant damage. They were gaining slowly on her starboard quarter, an awkward and dangerous position where they were exposed to the pirate ship's broadside but their own hadn't drawn level yet, and the bow chasers were too far forward to be any good. The _Imperator_ rocked and heaved as she absorbed the next volley, the deck hazed with choking smoke and screaming men; blood was making slow, shining trails across the freshly scrubbed boards. They couldn't afford to let them get off a third unanswered shot. "LARBOARD BATTERIES! _FIRE AT WILL!"_

The two decks lit up almost beautifully, giving Killian half a moment to wish they hadn't left a third of their guns back in Antigua. Still, the effect of the broadside was as marvelous as could be hoped. The _Walrus_ swerved, lurched, and came almost to a halt, pushed into irons against the wind, and the damage to her hull was visible and serious. One more, that was all it would take, and then the most feared pirate ship in the Indies was theirs, they'd have their lives back, none of his mistakes would matter –

And then, utterly unexpectedly, their stern went up in a plume of broken shards, jerking and pummeling them off course themselves, as they wheeled in unison to stare. Instead of taking the golden opportunity to hie to freedom once they had decided to chase the _Walrus,_ the _Blackbird_ was – of all the fool things – coming up directly astern, their fore guns booming loud enough to make Killian's ears ring. The second pirate ship was much faster than they were, and as they pulled almost parallel, he flung a mad glance over just in time to see someone who was either Miss Emma White, or her identical twin, striding the deck and bellowing at her own gun crews. _What the bloody – ?_

He had no time to dwell on this fascinating revelation. The _Blackbird's_ port-side batteries spoke again, whirling and hailing into their sides with thumps and crashes, and Killian felt the telltale slew beneath his feet that meant something below was taking on water. Not bad, not enough to sink them, but not something to be ignored, and the two ships were now riding closely enough side by side that a man with a strong arm could have thrown a good-sized rock from one deck to the other. As they kept closing, he turned his head, at the same time Emma White – no, he felt quite and entirely certain, _Captain Swan –_ did the same, and their eyes locked. Something went through him like a lightning strike, rooting his feet to the bloodstained boards. Neither of them seemed immediately able to look away.

Then the next moment, the _Imperator_ opened up a full broadside from its starboard guns, and the _Blackbird_ almost vanished in the explosion. Half the stern-castle was in ruins, the mainsail sliced like a fricassee, the pirates yelling in distress and confusion – and someone was falling. Killian saw them claw vainly at thin air as the deck went out from beneath them, and then plunge straight down, into the frothing waves. Saw the flash of a soaked blonde head, and knew instantly who it was.

Something else came over him then, something equally as mad and desperate as when he'd gone to help the slaves. He didn't know what he was doing, only that something far too remote and logical for the situation was remarking that she _had_ saved his life back in Jamaica by shooting the one redcoat and having her loathsome associate shoot the other, and that fair was fair. As well, it wouldn't matter – much – if the heavily wounded _Blackbird_ got away for the time being. Not if they had her captain in custody instead.

Still, though. None of that was germane to what he did, snatching the coil of rope. _"Man overboard!"_ He sprinted to the rail and threw it, as she had clearly been dazed by the fall and couldn't quite concentrate, spitting out blood and salt as burning debris hailed into the sea around her like falling stars. He saw her look up, and realize that the person throwing her a rope was not one of her own crew, that if she was going to let herself be saved (the other option, of course, being far more watery and fatal) then it was to be taken into the hands of the Royal Navy, the one institution that existed solely to stamp out pirates and everything and everyone associated with them. Grab that rope, let him haul her aboard the _Imperator,_ and she might as well twist it into a noose, put it around her own neck, and spare everyone the time and trouble.

Looking directly into his eyes, struggling to keep her head above water, Emma Swan grasped hold.


	8. VIII

**-VIII-**

The brig of His Majesty's Ship _Imperator_ was located forward, a small, dismal cell directly across from the wall of wooden cages containing live chickens, the gated stall with two goats and a young heifer cow, and a pen that housed their last pig, duly destined to be slaughtered for sausages. It was these which permitted the crew to have fresh eggs, milk, and butter, and also a shrewd place to locate the penitentiary, as perhaps the thinking was that mischief-makers would be tormented into repentance by having to endure the barnyard reek for any length of time. As well, the ship's surgery was just down the gantry, and thin trails of blood were snaking down the boards as the _Imperator_ rose and fell heavily on the swells – she wasn't sinking, but it was clear she had taken a fair amount of pummeling from the two pirate vessels. Distant came the moans and groans of the crewmen who had taken one too, as the surgeon and surgeon's mate must be wading among the detritus, piecing together what could be saved and putting out of its misery what could not. At one point there came the awful, gutting shrieks that could only mean the bone-saw, some poor seaman held down by his mates with just a leather strap to bite on for the pain, while the surgeon grimly hacked off some limb too shattered to be saved.

Listening to it, Emma couldn't help but cringe. After she had been hauled to the deck, she had been conducted to her current place of confinement and shut in with no conversation or ceremony, the captain and lieutenant not even bothering to bask in their victory due to the pressing need to stem the damage on their vessel, get treatment for the wounded men, and run out of the range of any further ambushes. Not that there were much risk of those – the _Blackbird_ had been barely afloat after the final salvo, and Flint was certainly not about to conduct any such suicidal maneuver as sailing directly down the throat of a third-rater, even a weakened one. Bloody hell, perhaps she should have let them get the _Walrus_ after all – yet she knew she would still have made the same choice. The world was dangerous enough for pirates, and Flint falling would swiftly signal the end of New Providence and their entire way of life. So she simply had to save him. Not that the bastard was likely to repay the favor. _No damn wonder we aren't altruists, if this is where it gets us._

Emma shifted her position on the dirty straw, mind racing. She had no idea how long it might be until one or both of the Joneses returned to inspect their prisoner, or what she would do when they did, and she had absolutely no way to be sure if her split-second decision to trust Lieutenant Jones, rather than drowning on the spot, was just a longer route to whatever unpleasant eternal fate awaited pirates. There was still the chance that they didn't know who she really was, that she could play the Emma White game again, but that was very slender surety. Besides, she'd seen that look in the lieutenant's eyes, when they locked gazes just before the volley. He knew.

In which case, her prospects were utterly dire. Even if the _Blackbird_ didn't sink, they would naturally assume they had seen the last of her, and Felix wouldn't even have to go to the bother of an active mutiny to make himself captain. She herself would be destined for Navy headquarters on Antigua, a swift and summary conviction of high seas piracy and the capital punishment that attended forthwith, and a walk up the gallows at Port Royal, still the favored site of pirate execution in the New World. Her last sight would be of a baying crowd, throwing eggs and stones and rotten vegetables, as a hooded man put the heavy hemp noose over her head, cinched it tight, and a redcoat officer read the sentence over the tattoo of drums. She would be asked if she wished to repent, and they would, clearly not expecting any such thing to ever occur, further entreat God to have mercy on her soul. Then they would pull the lever, the trapdoor would drop, and if she was lucky, her neck would break instantly. If she was not, she would slowly and agonizingly strangle, jerking and kicking, soiling herself, aware every second of onrushing death, until the blackness finally took her. Her body would be tarred and caged and hung up as a warning; the popular press might make a scandalous legend of her, the Pyrate Queene. Doubtless a few years from now, she would be either the villainess or the star-crossed heroine in some twopenny Covent Garden vaudeville. Not the absolute worst of legacies, perhaps, but still not one she had any interest in acquiring.

So, then. The only way out was plain. Sometime between now and whenever the _Imperator_ got back to Antigua, she was going to have to convince the brothers Jones that they really did not want to hand her over, that they would extend their defiance of their superiors' orders even to shielding her, and the only way to do _that_ was likewise clear. She would have to cozen one (or both) of them, and she had already sensed that Killian was by far the easier target. Furthermore, there _was_ one way to ensure that she would not be hanged, although she would certainly still never be a pirate again unless she managed to escape. But there was one recognized and effective legal defense for women convicted of criminality: pleading the belly. If they presented themselves pregnant, preferably visibly, Christian law forbade them from being executed.

Emma forced herself to consider the idea coldly, logically. If it was the one thing that would certainly save her life, she would just have to do it. Send the baby either to Ingrid to raise alongside Henry, or to Miranda, who would find a family on the island willing to adopt it (while, of course, never telling them where it had come from). Assuming, of course, she could handle matters with Lieutenant Jones quickly and repeatedly enough to result in such an outcome, but that would just have to be part of the overall effort and risk. Besides, she had a distinct feeling that if she could get herself with his child, he would stop at nothing to protect her, even at whatever cost to himself. She'd done this once before, and it was nothing she was particularly eager to repeat for its own sake, but necessity beckoned. And while death in childbed was always possible, death on the gallows was certain.

She took a slow breath, steadying her nerves. Wondered what it said that her biggest worry was not that she couldn't seduce Killian Jones – that part she had every confidence that she could – but that she would not display unassailable proof of said seduction in time to convince a judge to grant clemency. Perhaps she could weep and pretend that she had merely been deceived by powerful evildoers, Eve with the serpent. They couldn't _want_ to kill a woman, especially if they botched her case and ended up stirring public sympathy for her or the pirates in general. And if Captain and Lieutenant Jones' careers went down in flames because of this as well. . . then she had done a valuable service to New Providence's future, she insisted to herself. Besides, the longer they were occupied with her, the longer they couldn't hunt pirates elsewhere. Flint might succeed in his fool plan and get his Spanish gold. If so, the entire balance of the Caribbean shifted forever. Whether to salvation or damnation, there was no way to be certain.

Just then, she heard footsteps, and looked up to see the very object of her plans emerge from the shadows, hair straggling loose and cravat unwound, coat missing and fresh splashes of blood on his white waistcoat; he had clearly been down seeing to the wounded crewmembers in the surgery. He looked dirty, exhausted, and grim as he regarded her through the bars, and his face still bore unmistakable evidence of its unfortunate encounter with the butt of the redcoat's musket. Although some of the swelling was down, ugly purple-green bruises and a half-healed gash marred his cheek and jaw. Then he said, "Captain Swan."

Well, then. That answered that question. She inclined her head in cool acknowledgement. "Lieutenant Jones."

One dark eyebrow arched, in what was clearly something of a habit. "Where in the world did you get the notion to pose as Miss White of Charlestown, the merchant's daughter?"

"I don't see how I'm obliged to tell you."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But you, madam, are at what one would call a disadvantage. I'm sure I don't need to point out how. And no doubt it is a fascinating tale, how an English lady becomes captain of a pirate vessel?" Despite himself, there was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Remembering that she was supposed to be encouraging intimacy with him, rather than barbing back at him, Emma smiled demurely. "Not particularly, no. My ship. Did she sink?"

Lieutenant Jones hesitated, regarding her with those beautiful long-lashed blue eyes. Not a man who hid his thoughts well, this one. After a moment he said, "No. She was running heavily damaged, but still intact, when we last saw her. We would have pursued and captured, but you and your cohort had likewise made life rather difficult for us."

Emma allowed herself a brief moment of relief that the _Blackbird_ was still, however tenuously, safe. Perhaps Will could hold order on board until she figured out how to get back to them – escape was still the best option, although she knew the odds were not at all in her favor and remained nonexistent as long as the _Imperator_ was at sea, unless she wanted to jump overboard again. She cleared her throat. "Thank you. For throwing me the rope. I'm sure most men in your position would have left me to drown."

"You're more valuable alive." Lieutenant Jones' gaze flickered. "Do you know a Mistress Regina Mills, of Antigua?"

"No." Emma was puzzled. Antigua was, of course, the one place in the Caribbean that every pirate strove vigorously never to see in their life, as it otherwise meant that it was soon to be ending. "I've never heard of her."

"Well, she wants you dead." Killian Jones looked at her levelly. "You specifically. That was why Liam and I were engaged to hunt your vessel. You truly have no notion of what it might be?"

"No," Emma said again, aware that no matter how cordial his manner was, he was prospecting for information that he would use against her, and she would have to be careful what she said. But in this case, she genuinely had no idea. "Perhaps my crew plundered a ship she had an interest in. Who is she, that she can send the Royal Navy on her personal vendettas?"

"She's a – woman of business." Lieutenant Jones coughed, a faint flush creeping up his bruised cheeks. He really was an abysmal liar. "And it wasn't a personal vendetta." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. "You and your criminal activities are a danger to the Crown's interests. As loyal officers, it is our duty to stop you."

"Loyal?" Emma sensed a weakness, even if she wasn't quite sure how to exploit it just yet. "The same loyalty that led you to the slave market on Kingston, where I had to shoot a redcoat to conceal your treason?"

Killian Jones' flush deepened. "You – you don't know what you saw."

"Don't I? My man told me what you said, about your father selling you and your brother for a rowboat. And believe me, I would not have lifted a finger to save you if I didn't know exactly what it was. You shot that guard to save the slave and the little girl. Don't deny it."

His lips went white. "You think you know quite a deal about me then, don't you?"

"Perhaps I'd care to know more." Emma leaned forward. Did her best to sound earthy, promising, yet no matter how much her life might depend on alluring him, she couldn't help pushing him instead. "Likewise, it must be a fascinating tale, how a child slave becomes an officer in the Royal Navy. How did you get out of servitude? Shoot your masters too?"

"I did not," Killian said icily. "Liam took care of it all. Got us away from the ship and captain that held us, and found the means to pay off our bondage and purchase our commissions. There was no cheating or bad form involved."

"A slave got his hands on enough money to cover two remittances of indenture _and_ two officers' warrants? Those aren't cheap. And I doubt you were paid so well aboard your ship that you could afford to save for your freedom, even over years. How did he do it?"

"Planning to join the Navy yourself?" Killian looked at her scathingly. "Is that the reason for this sudden interest, madam?"

Emma regarded him for a moment longer, as the truth dawned on her. "You don't know how he did it. Do you?"

"Of course I know," Killian snapped. "He took a loan from one of the wharf money-changers, on collateral of the ring that you and your lot stole from me. He paid it back with our first proper salary, retrieved the ring, and gave it to me as a promise we'd never be slaves again. You probably dropped it in the jungle and didn't even care."

Emma felt in her pockets. The item in question had managed to survive her dramatic plunge into the sea, and she had to admit to considerable satisfaction at the look on his face as she held it up. "You mean this ring?"

"Give that to me!" Killian made a lunge, forgetting about the bars of the brig that separated them. He knocked his hand into them as a result, and shook it, wincing.

"Perhaps." Emma slipped the chain over her head, and let him see her drop the ring between her breasts. "Or you could come and get it."

Killian Jones stared at her with a look of utter shock. "Are you _propositioning_ me, madam?"

 _No,_ Emma thought wryly, _I'm trying to teach you to play the harpsichord._ But she reached up and pulled down the neck of her damp, grubby chemise, spilling attractively out the top, sauntering toward him and lowering her voice to a murmur. "Why else did you come down here? You knew we'd be alone. Perhaps hoped I might show you how very grateful I was for my life. Well, Lieutenant. Don't be shy. I can certainly be grateful."

Those eyes remained fixed on her, burning holes in her. He licked his lips, almost unconsciously, sweat making tracks through the grime on his face. It was far from a romantic alcove to steal away for a tryst, with the quarreling chickens five feet behind him and blood still drying on the floor. But as he looked back at her, the air all but crackled, and Emma had the strong and unsettled sensation that plan to save herself via bearing the bastard child of an ex-slave Navy lieutenant or not, she was very assuredly playing with fire here, and once it struck and caught, there would be no way to control its spread. Perhaps it would be safer to try with Liam. But he had just as many dangers, if different ones, and she pushed away the horrible thought that the crew of the _Imperator,_ knowing she was locked up down here and wanting to pay back the damage the _Blackbird_ had done to the ship and their friends, might come by for highly unpleasant visits. She wanted very much to believe that Killian and Liam, who prided themselves so much on a well-run ship, would forbid their sailors from gang-raping her, but they couldn't watch all the time. If even one man decided in the dead of night that what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, all her pretty fantasies about choosing Killian, about convincing him to care for her, would be worth less than nothing. Might save her life, but lose far more.

Their gazes remained locked for a final explosive moment. Then Killian turned sharply, breaking the spell. "We're bound north," he said. "To Harbour Island or Eleuthera, wherever the _Scarborough_ can be found – Liam thinks it's best to coordinate the Navy's efforts against the next stage of fighting the pirate menace. If you know about these waters or anything else it would behoove us to be aware of, it would be wise to see that we do. Good day, madam."

And with that, and half a bow, he was gone.

* * *

It was a long walk back to the cabin. He didn't know what had just happened, or what might have been about to happen, only that it thickened his chest and closed his throat, left him running a finger obsessively under his cravat as if to loosen it when it was already in disarray, and his untidy hair matted to the back of his neck. He didn't know which was worse: that Captain Swan had clearly decided, not without reason, that there may just be a way to purchase her freedom, or that he had almost fallen for it. Not the freedom – he wasn't _that_ stupid. But joining her in the brig among the rest of the animals, bear her down into the straw, claw at her, bodies entangled and devouring, the slickness of her beneath his fingers and then elsewhere, the strain and burn and rasp, the gasp and bite of a deep and thorough fuck. It was visceral and vivid enough to stop him in his tracks, hands braced against the wall, as he struggled to regain mastery of himself. It had been stupid to go down there. Stupid. Should have merely satisfied himself that she was intact, as a pirate imprisoned by His Majesty's Royal Navy had no other comforts or privileges to expect, and left again straightaway. _Stupid. Stupid._

After a moment Killian moved away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and emerged onto deck. A din of hammers filled the hot, sullen summer twilight as men worked on patching the biggest damages from the battle, and he caught a glimpse of August Booth, in his capacity as ship's carpenter, overseeing the repairs. It might just be his imagination that the bastard was watching him out of the corner of his eye, but Killian felt a surge of resentment. Couldn't the pirates have done him one favor, just _one,_ and shot him? If Booth reported to Gold that they were doing anything other than transporting Captain Swan to her swift execution –

Still, though. Plenty of time between now and then, and nobody could argue with the necessity of joining forces with the _Scarborough._ Killian paused, then turned, knocked, and cautiously let himself into the cabin. His and Liam's confrontation had been interrupted by the battle, but not resolved, and he wasn't sure how his brother would greet his reappearance, though by rights they were Killian's quarters as much as Liam's. He was almost seeing double and terribly needed to sleep, however, so he would just have to take the chance.

Inside, Liam was bending over the table, sleeves rolled up to the elbow and shirt neck open, looking just as sooty, sweaty, scruffy, and weary. On sight of Killian, he slowly straightened up, both of them equally wary of setting off a new conflagration. "Is our. . . guest safely shut in the brig, then?"

"Aye." Killian hesitated. "I asked her about Regina. She says she doesn't know the woman or why she'd want her dead. Explained the gravity of her situation, and what she had to gain from cooperating. The rest didn't. . . didn't matter."

Liam eyed him, but didn't press. Instead he said, "Very well. I'll question her more extensively in a moment, by myself."

Something about the tone of his voice – and that _by myself –_ stung like a slap. Killian knew he had absolutely no right to protest, considering his recent actions, but. . . "You don't trust what I'm telling you, do you?"

Liam frowned. "I'm captain of this vessel, she's a prisoner aboard it, and one of signal importance to the very mission we were sent on. Of course I'm going to question her privily."

"Aye, but. . ." Killian felt the heat in his battered cheeks rising again, for a different reason. "Even if I told you more, you'd still ask her yourself. Liam, I swear, I – "

"I'm sure you're telling me what you can." Liam raked a comb through his tangled curls and swept them out of his face, retying the ribbon. "I know you well enough to see plainly that there's more you're not. And since you ask, Killian, no. Right now I don't trust you. Love you, yes – trust you, no. I've dealt with you too much as my little brother, and not enough as my lieutenant and subordinate commanding officer. As you already pointed out, your transgressions in that department should have you flogged and chained. I don't intend to do that, but I'm also not staking this entire mission and our future on your temper and rash decisions. It's not fair to either of us. So – " He reached for his captain's coat. "Indeed I am going to question her, alone. As for you, go to sleep, you need it."

"Liam – " To his horror, Killian felt tears starting to well under his eyelashes, the grief of a little boy whose elder brother had always been his entire world, the love of his otherwise terrible life, who lived in fear that one day, even that would be taken from him. "Liam, please, let me – "

"I don't want an apology." Liam's shoulders were tense and hard as granite as he stood silhouetted in the doorway. "I already said that. Go to sleep, Lieutenant. You're relieved of duty for the night."

And with that, and half a nod, he was gone.

* * *

After Killian's precipitate departure, Emma had not been sure whether to expect any more company for the evening, and in fact feared it if she did, for it would certainly not be anyone who meant any good. But as she was sitting in the straw and listening to the wind whine through the broken timbers – she didn't like the sound of it, and the seas were definitely getting rougher, it wasn't just the _Imperator's_ damage making them ride heavily – she was startled to hear footsteps descending the ladder, then striding past the cages and stalls to appear dimly out of the shadows. He looked back at her with cool, unreadable courtesy, none of his brother's barely restrained chaos. "Captain Swan – I am told it is in fact Captain Swan, is it not? I thought we should take a moment to talk."

"Captain Jones." Emma didn't instinctively know how to deal with this one, and the cautionary tale of how badly she had underestimated him back in Jamaica was more than enough to know she had to take it carefully. "Good evening. Your hospitality is scrupulous."

Liam's mouth tightened. "Did you expect better accommodations? I have given strict instructions to the crew that anyone who bothers or harasses you in any way will pay dearly for it. But you are still – "

"A pirate." Emma had grown rather tired of hearing it, as if she was ever in danger of forgetting it. "Believe me, Captain, I know. But I have just one question. A small one, I promise."

"Oh, you do, do you?"

"Aye." Emma looked at him flatly. "Why did you lie to your brother about how you got out of slavery?"

Liam froze. "I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Earlier, when he was down here. He told me you borrowed money from one of the dockyard loan-houses against the collateral of your ring, purchased your freedom and officers' commissions, then paid it back with your first salary, retrieved the ring, and promised you wouldn't be slaves again. It's a pretty story, but Killian believes it only because he has no idea that it's not remotely plausible."

"And why on earth wouldn't it be? As if you know so much of – "

"I'm a pirate captain," Emma said. "I've done business with those sharks before. First, there's absolutely no way that they keep enough cash and portable assets on hand to cover the bond for two adult male indentured servants, _and_ two officers' commissions in the Navy – it's more than might pass through their place of business in a year, and if they had such sums on the premises, they'd be robbed and killed. Second, it must have been paid in cash, because not even the Admiralty, desperate as it may have been for sailors during the war, would accept a promissory-note or a bank draft, which I'm sure you'd possess anyway, to make two slaves into officers. Common seamen, yes, seeing as they stole all the men they could get their hands on, but not officers. Thirdly, there is no loan-house that would advance that much money, even if they did have it, to one slave with only one ring to trade, because they know they'd never see it again. Fourth, assuming the standard price of bond was £12 for each of you, that's £24, and an officers' commission apiece at what, £20-£25 – that's close to £75 overall, and you told me back in Jamaica that your entire salary is £60 a year. So even assuming you're telling the truth so far, you couldn't have paid the loan back on your first salary unless you either made some substantial capital on the side, or didn't plan to have any money for at least a year. That's not even counting the extortionate interest they charge, which at an average of twenty percent on £75 would have added an extra £15 to your bill, and that's the low end of their rates. By which time, the odds they'd still have the ring you pawned are something well less than nothing. Would you mind telling me, then, where exactly you met an honest loan shark with £75 in available funds, who took one ring as promise from a slave, didn't charge you interest, kept your collateral safe long-term and then returned it, accepted less than the full total for a year's payment, and likewise why the Admiralty just took the money and shook your hand, rather than logically concluding that you were a thief and turning you over to the local magistrate to be hanged?"

Liam stared at her, face utterly white, eyes like two pitted hollows, as she concluded this recital and sat back, waiting tensely to see if she had once more pushed her luck too far. He opened his mouth, then shut it. "Well," he said at last. "You're a sharp one, aren't you."

"I didn't become a pirate captain, and a _female_ pirate captain, by being a fool or an empty pretty face." Emma kept her gaze on him. "Unless you want to insist that this fable is true, in which case very well, keep your secrets. But I'll know that you're lying, and you and I both know it."

Liam's fists clenched convulsively. After a moment he said, "I did what I had to do, to save the person I loved. I'm sure, mistress, that is something you can understand, as I don't have the feeling that you got into this line of work for the thrill. What happened to us, what our father did – it destroyed Killian, and he's lived at the very brink of that abyss for our entire life. I thought that if I was the one who paid the price to the darkness, I was better equipped to deal with the consequences. That way. . ." He caught himself, clearly hating himself for confiding to her, but couldn't stop. "That way, perhaps, he wouldn't have to. But it's still there in him, always close to the surface, and I can't stop it or take it away any more than I can command the tides to turn back or the wind to stand still. I'd advise you to think very carefully about any sparks you were planning to strike. I don't want to deal with you unpleasantly, if it can be at all avoided. But if you deliberately drive Killian over the edge, if you complete what I've given my entire life, my goddamned fucking _soul,_ to stop from happening, I will kill you. Believe that."

It was spoken with absolutely no bravado or bluster or swagger, merely a calm and rational statement of fact, and it turned Emma cold from head to heel. All at once she could see the family resemblance, the fact that while the darkness ran in Liam much differently than it did in Killian, it was just as strong in its way, and held just as much sway on their terribly damaged souls. Something that not even she, wretched as her past was, couldn't quite understand. At least her parents had simply died, not sold her and Charles into slavery for a boat, run and never looked back – and still more, she was nearly certain that the culprit was now sailing with her crew. What might happen if the Jones brothers and Brennan ever came face to face was too terrible to imagine.

For another moment, she still didn't answer. She had, of course, already decided that her only chance of freeing herself was to do exactly this – to manipulate Killian, to take advantage of that weakness and darkness and damage, to lure him to her side and bind him there, whether by a child or otherwise. Yet now, she felt vaguely sickened by the thought, as if while she and Liam stood on opposite sides of a chasm, Killian was trapped somewhere between them, and a wrong move on either of their parts would send him plunging. As if they shared a strange and poignant responsibility to fight each other as they would – her a pirate and Liam Navy – but to leave Killian out of it. That while their own battle was forgivable, destroying him would not be.

"Well?" Liam said, when she remained silent. "Do you understand?"

"Aye." Emma looked up at him. "But you – you're his hero. Back in Jamaica, when you still thought I was Miss White, he was insisting how good you were, how strong, how he'd die if he ever lost you. He _adores_ you. He doesn't think you could ever do anything wrong. And whatever you have done, that you didn't tell him. . ."

Liam closed his eyes briefly, before opening them, blue gaze almost opaque. "That is my cross to bear, Miss Swan, and not yours. As I said, I wanted to take on that burden, rather than make him carry it. He struggles enough. Especially at the moment. Hence it's best that he continues to believe, exactly as he does now, the account of our freedom that he told you."

"And that's your decision to make for him?"

"Is that any concern of yours?" Liam's face was even colder. "Whatever other accusations you may justly lay at my feet, my love for my brother, and desire to keep him safe and _sane,_ is the one thing I will not stand for you questioning."

"I wouldn't," Emma said quietly. "That much. As I told you, I have a little brother too. And – and a son. What you said about doing what you had to in order to save the people you love – you're right. I didn't become a pirate because I thought it would be an exciting career of grand larceny for a few years, before I was summarily executed as a traitor to my homeland. If I understand that about you, you have to understand this about me."

Liam didn't answer, regarding her from those shadowed eyes. In the silence, Emma noticed that the wind had gotten still stronger, and the rise and fall of the floor beneath Liam's feet had become steep enough that he had to grasp onto the bars to keep his balance. Frowning, she said, "Is there weather coming? This is hurricane season. You can't ride out one of those at sea, the way you might with a thunderstorm. You need to get to a sheltered anchorage, and fast."

"Aye?"

"Aye, I've captained these waters quite a bit longer than you, and especially with the ship already damaged, staying in open ocean is bloody dangerous. I could – " Emma hesitated. "I could help. We have to be near the Windward Passage, I know the Saint-Domingue coastline fairly well. Let me have a look at the charts, and I could find us somewhere safe."

"You expect me to let you out of gaol and give a convicted and confessed pirate captain proprietary access to the Royal Navy's sensitive information, logbooks, routes, schedules, and navigational equipment, all on your word that there _might_ be a hurricane coming?" Liam looked at her in patent disbelief. "Do you think I am a _complete_ idiot?"

Emma had to admit, when put that way, it did not sound good, but that howl in the wind sounded worse. "I don't need anything except a heading of our position and a quick check of the charts. You may recall that I too am on board this ship, so it sinking would kill me as surely as you, and if you don't trust anything else about pirates, you may trust our survival instinct. At least let me see the sky. If it doesn't look bad, you can take me back here and shut me in for the rest of the voyage. If it does. . . you may just have to trust me, however briefly, if you want to get out of this. The _Valiant_ sank in a storm while on our pursuit. Don't make her captain's same mistake."

Liam still looked very much as if he was going to argue, but at that moment, the ship pitched hard enough to throw him almost headlong into the bars, and he realized that her argument just might have some merit apart from self-interest. Looking silently furious, he stepped forward, pulled the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door, helping her out with reflexive courtesy before keeping a very firm grip on her as they climbed the ladder. Where exactly he thought she might try to run, Emma wasn't sure – straight to Killian, to spill that he had lied about their deliverance from slavery? Well, let them both worry about blackmail later, as the sight of the sky was enough to make her suck in her breath. "Christ. We need to get to land, now."

Liam clearly still did not believe her – this man's stubbornness was absolutely going to get him killed one day – but nor could he deny the eerie color of the horizon, the whitecaps breaking almost vertically, and the iron-grey veils of rain lashing the sea only a few miles off. The wind was strong enough to make standing upright difficult, and after a final instant of loathing consideration, he jerked his head. "Fine! Come on!"

Stumbling, Emma followed him across the deck to the cabin. Liam pulled the door open, just as a shirtless, staring Killian sat bolt upright from one of the bunks, blinking like an owl and clutching his blankets to his chin with a look of shock that would have been comical in any other circumstance. Liam swept all the other detritus off the table and unrolled a map, and Emma ran her finger along it swiftly, calculating. "Where are we now?"

"Last reckoning, 19°31'43.4' north, 74°21'57.3' west, off the Cuban coast," Liam said tensely, dipping a quill and scribbling as Killian continued to gape at them, clearly thinking that he was having some kind of bizarre nightmare. "Can we make it to Saint-Domingue?"

"Aye, it's not far, but that's almost due east, and I don't doubt you've found how hard it is in the Indies to sail a vessel of this sort east. With the storm – "

"The trades won't matter in the storm. Unless you were proposing that we make north, toward New Providence?" Liam gave her a very hard look. "Lead us into your waters, alone, for your friends to make ripe pickings of?"

Emma snapped her mouth shut, as she _had_ been about to suggest a northwesterly route – not necessarily to get the _Imperator_ captured or hunted by pirates, but there _was_ the fact that her odds of escape were much higher there. _Bloody hell, don't underestimate him again._ "Saint-Domingue it is. Can you chart the course?"

"No. He can." Liam gestured to Killian. "I'm sorry, I wanted to let you sleep. But this appears to be an emergency. Restored to duty, Lieutenant."

Killian looked stunned an instant longer, then to his vast credit, collected himself straightaway and vaulted out of bed. He was still shirtless and barefoot, wearing only his white canvas breeches, and Emma was suddenly aware of his warmth as he shouldered up next to her – not at all in a prepared, calculating way, but much more unexpected and organically. Attraction to him, now that she had decided it would be cruel in a way she could not countenance to merely destroy him for her own survival, would have to be overcome or ignored, and certainly not acted on. So she merely bent back to consult the chart, marking out a quick trajectory and relaying it to him as he scribbled. The cabin was rocking heavily, rain slashing against the windows, as Killian shot a look at it and said, "I don't suppose there are enough stars for a sextant reading. I'll have to navigate it mostly by dead reckoning. I assume there has to be some secluded spot on the Saint-Domingue coast where we won't be noticed by the French, as I doubt they'd think much of a Royal Navy warship suddenly appearing even in refuge."

"Aye, I know a few places." Emma shot a wary look at the windows. "If this gets much worse, however, any choice of our own course will be moot. This isn't whatever storm we previously endured. This is a hurricane, and trust me, there's a difference."

Killian looked alarmed, but not intimidated, and finished his course with a few more adjustments. Then he strode back to his bed, threw back on his discarded clothes, and the three of them emerged onto the deck, both Liam and Killian catching Emma's elbows as her foot slipped. They battled across to the wheel, where Liam yelled at the beleaguered helmsman to go below, then took hold of it himself, holding steady while Killian and Emma did their best to take any sort of actual observations. She checked the rig of the sheets, then shouted at the nearest men to get up there, trim them several degrees, and double-tie their knots.

The Navy sailors stared at her, as if wondering either who in damnation this blonde wench barking orders like a sergeant-major was, or knowing exactly who she was and unable to countenance why she was not safely locked up below. Then Liam, still wrestling the wheel, bellowed, "Do as she says!"

Still flabbergasted, but likewise realizing that now was not the moment to quibble about leadership procedures, the men scuttled up the shrouds and obeyed, restraining the _Imperator's_ tortured pitching and rocking to a muted, strained struggle against the wind and water. Heavy sloshes of salt spilled over the sides, Killian had tied a line around his waist to keep his balance as he fumbled with the wet parchment and compass, and they plowed forward into a blast of solid spray, Emma unable to keep her mind off her own damaged _Blackbird_ and praying they hadn't been caught out too far to sea when this struck. Otherwise, it was most certainly done for.

Yet right now, the three of them were keeping the _Imperator_ more or less under control by sheer force of will, Liam steering, Killian keeping the course through the impermeable rain, and Emma taking on the role of deck commander, yelling for adjustments on a sheet or line. They were struggling heavily in the troughs, and she had a brief moment of wishing that she hadn't been quite so industrious about blowing holes in a ship she now found herself dependent on for outrunning a monster hurricane. A bucket brigade was running below, trying to pail out water that must be splashing higher with every swell, and as the wind caught them broadside and jibed them violently, the swinging boom almost killed her before she ducked in the nick of time. It didn't stop swinging either, keeling over so far that the sails almost touched the water. They were nearly parallel to the seething emerald-green abyss as Liam hauled on the wheel with all his strength, trying to right them. Emma lost her footing and slid across the deck, toward the mouth of the deep, could see fish trapped in the wave that she was about to hit –

And then once more, something caught her sharply, putting a halt to her plunge. Killian hoisted her against his chest, getting an arm free to loop his lifeline around her as well and tie her into place against him; he was quite good with one-handed knots, Emma noted detachedly. They were solidly wedged together, their clothes so soaking wet that she could feel every inch of him molded against her, and did not doubt that he was noting the same. Tender scruples, however, would have to wait until they (ideally, at least) did not all break up and drown. She clung onto him like a barnacle, arms and legs locked tight, as he skidded back onto the deck just as Liam succeeded in restoring them to an angle more commonly found among operable seagoing vessels. Emma lay flat atop Killian, coughing, before she scrambled to her feet – which, due to their impromptu harness, necessitated him doing the same. They peered together through the snarling rain, as she thought she could just make out a dark strip of land a few miles ahead. It had to be Saint-Domingue, and if not, well, they weren't exactly spoiled for choice. "There!" she screamed, pointing. _"There!"_

Liam nodded once, riding them over the next succession of violent breakers and into the mouth of a broad and empty bay before a steep headland, thick tropical forest rising out of sight into the clouds as the trees bent and screamed in the tempest. Bloody hell, they were going to make it after all. The _Imperator_ was clearly a stubborn old girl, who could take a deal of pounding and punishment but still rise like a phoenix, and Emma felt a passing moment of gratitude to the Royal Navy for building their ships well, even if this was usually the bane of her existence the rest of the time. Just a little closer, just a little –

Then above them, there was a horrible, rending crack, something shattered on the foremast, and a huge spar of broken wood sheared down, carrying a billowing, sodden length of sail with it. Killian pushed Emma flat just in time, but even as he was opening his mouth to scream at his brother, it was too late. The spar took Liam like a javelin, throwing him bodily ten feet from the wheel and pinning him to the deck; the sail tumbled on top of him like a shroud. At once the cloth began to soak up and turn crimson, and in Killian's eyes as he stared at it, Emma saw something that she had never seen before and did not ever want to see again. And in that, knew beyond a doubt that she was not going to finish this mission, even if she did manage to escape with her neck. Could not be responsible, no matter what, for making him look like that again.

"Take the wheel!" she screamed at him. "Drive us up toward the beach! Now!"

Killian remained frozen.

"NOW!"

At that, he moved, lurching toward the helm as Emma dived for Liam. She ripped the canvas off and got hold of the spar; it was a big piece, splintered and lethal, and it had pierced him completely through the right shoulder and out the back, a savage and serious wound. She tried to remove it, but couldn't. Her hands were sticky with blood and salt, the ship still tossing in torment as Killian wrestled the big third-rater up toward the sand. She felt the keel bump and grind, and then at last and abruptly, they were stuck, run aground just as she had been planning earlier in order to destroy them. They were incongruously at a halt while the storm continued to howl and lash around them, and she heard Killian screaming at the men to take down the last of the canvas. Then in the next instant, he was kneeling across from her, over his stricken brother. "Christ! Liam! Liam, look at me, it's not that bad, it's not that bad!"

Liam groaned, and Emma held his shoulders tightly as Killian fumbled to get hold of the spar, ignoring the splinters that ripped at his own hands, and with a furious, desperate wrench, managed to loosen it. It came free, dripping blood and gore, as the crimson flower in Liam's shoulder spread rapidly and Killian ripped off his coat and waistcoat, trying to make a bandage. Then they managed to lift him between them, stumble across the deck back to the cabin, and set him down heavily on the bed. He was barely conscious, and still losing blood, as Emma tightened the makeshift dressing. "Go get your surgeon," she ordered Killian. "Hurry."

He shut his mouth and wheeled off, returning shortly with a bespectacled, ginger-haired individual whose name was apparently Mr. Hopper, surgeon's mate; Emma deduced that the actual surgeon, one Mr. Whale, had taken plenty of drink after his brutal round of patching up the wounded crewmen, and could not be roused from stupor. Mr. Hopper fetched a cautery iron, heated it over the brazier, then took out his knife and cut away Liam's ruined shirt. "Hold him steady," he told Emma and Killian. "This isn't going to be pleasant."

The two of them did as ordered, Killian gripping Liam's head and Emma sitting on his legs, as Hopper uncorked a vial of some pungent-smelling alcoholic substance and washed the wound with it, making Liam arch his back and scream in agony. Tears were running down Killian's face as he clutched Liam's hand, his brother almost breaking his fingers with his grasp, but he himself didn't make a sound. Hopper sponged away the blood, revealing the deep, ugly hole in the meat of Liam's shoulder, then had Emma and Killian haul Liam upright, retrieved a pair of slender-nosed steel forceps, and carefully pulled out several long and slimy splinters. More blood sheeted down Liam's chest, and he gasped as Hopper fished out the last piece of wood, swearing incoherently. Killian held him firmly, chin on his shoulder, gaze averted so he wouldn't have to watch; even Emma, who had seen plenty of gruesome injuries in her time, found it hard to keep her eyes entirely on the proceedings. But they still weren't done.

After another slosh of the alcohol and another swab of the blood, Hopper had Liam bend over, revealing the exit wound in his shoulder blade, then put on the heavy padded glove and retrieved the red-hot cautery iron. "I'm sorry, Captain," he said. "Are you – "

"Bloody hell, just do it," Liam managed, head between his knees. "No damn use waiting."

Hopper paused, then nodded. With that, he clapped the iron square to Liam's back.

The awful smell of burning, blackening flesh filled the cabin, Liam roaring and Killian sucking in his breath as if trying desperately not to be sick, Emma still holding the captain on the other side and feeling Liam's weight crash heavily against her as Hopper seared shut the exit wound, then removed it, put the iron back in the fire, and had them lay him down, his head in Killian's lap and Emma taking charge of holding his hand. He was still squeezing with violent, agonized strength, which was oddly reassuring. She and Killian exchanged a glance, then gritted their teeth and held Liam steady as Hopper removed the reheated iron and cauterized the front of his shoulder. With the wound burned into two hideous blackened seals, he carefully dabbed it with brandy, got some clean linen, and began to bandage it up, packing in wool with every knot. "Captain, you absolutely cannot exert yourself or take part in dramatic action until it's healed. You should make a full recovery and have proper use of the arm, but it might be weaker or lamer than you're accustomed to. There are exercises you can do to strengthen it, once it's better, but for the sake of our mission – " Hopper shot an oblique sidelong glance at Emma – "we should find you somewhere to convalesce."

"Shut me up like an invalid?" Liam muttered, eyes closed and a dew of fevered sweat on his cheeks, as he sank back into Killian's lap. Emma got up, scouted around the cabin, and found no rum at all, which made her wonder what exactly sort of heathen operation they were running here. She didn't want to go down to the crew's quarters alone, even though they were certain to have some; she might just ask Killian to find some later. "I don't think that's – "

"Christ, Liam," Killian said, his voice still showing how much of a scare his brother had just given him. "You _are_ a bloody invalid right now. I'll take over. You. . . you have to trust me again. When the storm breaks, we'll find somewhere safe to lodge you and – "

At that, Liam's eyes fluttered halfway, revealing his customary too-stubborn-to-live expression behind them. "No," he said after a moment. "I'll stay on board ship. No matter what happens, I shouldn't be apart from the men. I'm still captain, and I don't intend to relinquish that command."

Killian bit his lip. "Liam, I don't want to take your position either. I just want you to recover, prove to you that I can manage by myself. Please. Let me make up for Jamaica. Please."

Liam's eyes remained flat and unyielding. He shuddered with a controlled spasm of agony, and Hopper handed him the brandy bottle, from which he took a deep, clumsy swig. When he looked up at his little brother again, his expression was exhausted more than angry. "Not now, Killian."

"Then when?" Killian argued. "You can't fight right now, you can't command in battle or steer the ship or do anything too vigorous, you need to _heal!_ If you can't trust me even when you're flat on your damn back, when can you? That's why there's two of us, Liam! You don't have to do everything by yourself! I'm your lieutenant. This is my _job,_ to take command when the captain can't. You wanted me to do my bloody duty, so don't stop me from it!"

Liam let out a slow, exasperated, pained breath, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling. Emma and Hopper avoided each other's eyes, feeling very much as if they were intruding on a private and delicate family squabble, more than just a matter of effective command aboard the _Imperator_ while its captain was indisposed. Liam was clearly struggling with all his might against both the knowledge that Killian was right, and his own fear of setting him up for failure, of giving more slack to the leash that his brother perpetually pulled on. Emma wondered what terrible price Liam had in fact paid to save them, to save them both, and if it was weighing him more impossibly than he thought he could ever rise from again. He had said it cost him his very soul, to rescue Killian from the abyss, and feared every moment that he'd fall nonetheless. Lose him now, and it would have all been for nothing.

"Very well," Liam said at last, barely more than a whisper. "You are – for the moment – Captain Killian Jones of His Majesty's Royal Navy, acting in my stead and with my authority for the duration of my infirmity. I trust you appropriately understand the significance, and will comport yourself with every decorum and integrity. Therefore, I officially cede command to you."

"Thank you." Killian's face lit up, blazing with pure and impossible joy, as if all he had asked for, all he had ever wanted, was a true chance. He took Liam's hand, which he was still holding, to his mouth and kissed it, like a vassal making his homage to a great lord. "Liam, thank you."

Liam gave him a wry look, eyes fluttering shut again. "Just please don't sink the bloody ship," he muttered, and lost consciousness.


	9. IX

**-IX-**

"No," Flint said, in a voice that suggested it was entirely beyond his understanding how they hadn't gotten the point the first half-dozen times. "Absolutely fucking not."

"Look," Will countered. "I know it's a risky wager. But let's note at least that you owe your bloody life to her. If she hadn't decided to take the _Blackbird_ up the Navy's arse, you and the rest of your men would be blowin' bubbles at the bottom of the sea right now, and you know it. In this bad of weather, the _Urca_ isn't goin' to keep to her schedule anyway, and if the Spanish fleet was unlucky enough to leave Havana before this hit, they're havin' plenty of damn fun anyway, by which I mean they're not. What are you going to do, walk on water to find 'em?"

Flint glared at him, which Will had expected. But as first mate, he had been promoted to acting captain of the _Blackbird_ until a proper election could be held, and while he had no interest in the position for its own sake, he certainly wasn't going to sit here and be a pushover. The five of them – him, Flint, Flint's quartermaster and sidekick Mr. Gates, Felix, and Brennan Jones, which was about as combustible a combination as humanely possible – sat in the darkened captain's quarters of the _Walrus,_ the lantern dancing a jig above them and the ship pitching and straining at every line and beam. They had seen the threatening horizon as well as any mariner with eyes, and bolted post-haste for the nearest bit of friendly land – which in this case was the notorious pirate haunt, Île de la Tortue, just north of Saint-Domingue, or as it was better known, Tortuga. Flint had bad blood with some bastard named Barbossa who often came through here, Flint being the sort of chap who had bad blood with almost everyone, so they hadn't actually gone ashore, but managed to find a secluded strip of beach where they could haul the badly damaged _Blackbird_ out of the water and drop anchor on the _Walrus._ They had barely done this when the hurricane descended like one of the Furies. It was plain that their next move was going to take some negotiating, which was why Flint, with deceptive cordiality, had invited Will to discuss it. Felix, as quartermaster and thus purportedly representative of the crew's interests, bullied his way into coming along as well, and Brennan Jones – Will wasn't entirely sure how they'd ended up with him there. Just that he'd done that bit where he was charming and non-threatening and said they might want an extra man at their back if Flint decided to throw his weight around, and he didn't have any particular connections on the crew yet so they could trust him to be impartial, and so on and so forth. It was simply easier to chuck the bloke in the boat with the two of them (Will had to admit, he didn't want to be alone on a dark and stormy night with him the only thing standing between Felix and the captaincy) than to argue.

Thus, here they were. Negotiations, however, had turned out to be a rather misleading term for the evening's occupation. The _Blackbird_ was battered enough that it would take at least a week to make her shipshape again, and as time was the one thing none of them had to spare, Flint proposed that they give him her guns, thus rendering him better equipped to take on the _Urca_ (apparently his previous efforts to acquire more cannon off a vessel called the _Andromache_ had gone very badly indeed). Once that was done and the prize secured, he promised, he would return, hand the guns back over along with a hefty share of Spanish gold, and help them fix the _Blackbird._ It was clear that he thought these were very generous terms indeed, and could not comprehend why they were perversely thwarting him in his grand endeavor.

Will, for his part, was well aware that only an idiot would accept them at face value, and while he might not be captain material, he wasn't an idiot. (Plenty of people might have disagreed, especially a few lovely ladies on New Providence, but you couldn't please everyone.) They were supposed to sit on Tortuga, completely defenseless, for however bloody long it took Flint to probably get himself killed trying to take the _Urca,_ and even if he did succeed, they were expected to think he'd keep his promises? When their captain had been imprisoned by the Navy and they might well be next on the hit list, considering someone powerful had arranged to see them taken out? If Flint was going to lob absurd proposals at them, Will would return the favor with the one he had just trotted out: that the _Blackbird's_ men come aboard the _Walrus,_ which if damaged was still seaworthy, and join forces to rescue Emma from the _Imperator._ Neutralize a dangerous threat to the pirates' survival, pay back the debt Flint had incurred for his life, and considering the hurricane and the delay and difficulties it would cause all ships in the region, probably still be able to make it back in time to track the _Urca_. That, however, had been received exactly as well as one would expect.

"No," Flint said again, taking a gulp from the bottle he was holding firmly on the table, rather than let it fly off and shatter in the tumult. "It's as much suicide to take on a Royal Navy ship as it is to face a Spanish man-of-war, and far less profitable. Furthermore, the _Urca_ doesn't know we're coming, and the _Imperator_ does. I'm sorry to hear what happened to Emma, but she's as good as hanged by now anyway. We'll have to accept the sacrifice in the spirit which it was meant, press forward, and make ourselves all rich men. Including you, if you'll sail with me."

"That what you're goin' to tell Mrs. Barlow?" Will raised an eyebrow. "That Emma died so you could be a rich man?"

Flint looked at him with slitted green eyes. "You really should learn to hold your tongue."

"Fraid that's one thing I've never been particularly good at. Just have to say what I'm thinkin'. Bloody hell, you know Miranda cares about her. Are you just plannin' to – "

"Mrs. Barlow understands my decision to hunt the _Urca_ ," Flint said coldly. "And the need to safeguard our future, no matter the cost. Not that your underhanded attempt to blackmail me with feminine sensibilities does you any credit, by the way. Unless you have something more substantial to offer as to why on earth I should even think of – "

"I'm willing to partner with you, Captain Flint," Felix interrupted. "I understand your plan in every particular, and if you support my official elevation to command of the _Blackbird,_ I look forward to a lucrative alliance."

Flint gave him a very cool look. "Who was your particular friend on my crew – Singleton, wasn't it? You could ask him how I feel about your ilk trying to usurp command, if I hadn't bashed his head in before we left Nassau. Scarlet can't keep his fucking mouth shut and he's as thick as a concussed ox, but I'd still prefer to sail with him over you."

"Thanks, Cap'n," Will said. "Knew we were gettin' along."

"Shut up." Flint took another long draft of rum. "Mr. Gates, can you please explain to these individuals the relative merit, which I thought for my part was stupendously obvious, of why they should consent to my plan?"

Gates rolled his eyes slightly, which was not something that many people dared to do. "Look, lads," he said. "It's unfortunate what happened to Miss Swan, sure enough. But if the alternative is getting all of us killed, against letting five million dollars sail away – "

"The _Imperator_ isn't in her finest fettle either," Will pressed. "Both of us landed some good shots on her, she wasn't under full power, and she's runnin' with maybe two-thirds of her guns. Normally, sure, it would be stupid to challenge her, but this might be our only shot to break the Navy's arm before they can get any stronger. Does it do us a damn lot of use to get the _Urca_ gold, if we sail straight into an English noose before we can spend it? And this Captain and Lieutenant Jones, they're not your average Navy sadists. They're. . . different. Not sure how, but they are."

"Not with a pirate captain in their custody," Flint said, with great finality. "Nobody in the Navy is that noble, take it from me. And even weakened, you already saw what they did to the _Blackbird._ Explain how that would be measurably different this time around?"

"Aye," Brennan Jones put in quickly. "Clearly we can't hope to take it. I vote we proceed with Captain Flint's plan."

Flint glanced up at him with a sour smile. "And who are you again? Your opinion is of relevance. . . why? I seem to recall you also introduced yourself as Jones, so what exactly would be your interest in this?"

Brennan flinched, as it abruptly occurred to Will that while Jones was certainly the commonest of surnames, something about their new crew member did in fact make him think of the lieutenant he and Mac had held prisoner in the cave outside of Kingston, and that story he'd told about their father selling them for a boat. As well, he could have warned Brennan that it was a bad fucking idea to open your mouth around Flint if you had any weaknesses he could sniff out, but as for the far-fetched yet not completely improbable possibility that the Irishman was the deadbeat parent of the two Navy officers on their arses. . . Lady Fate appeared to be having quite a bloody laugh at their expense. _I'd be pissed too, if that was done to me._ Will made a note to have a private chat with Brennan shortly.

Rather than answering, Brennan recognized that retreat was the wiser option, but his silence was enough to indicate to Flint that he was onto something. He raised a cutting eyebrow. "Well?"

Brennan's eyes flickered back and forth, as if judging his odds of jumping up and making a clean getaway – which, obviously, were not good. "I – all right," he said. "I don't know for certain, but they. . . they may be my two elder sons. Liam and Killian. A long time ago, I was in great difficulty, and I had no choice but to do something I very much regret. I never wanted to hurt my boys, of course, but a decision had to be made. If it _is_ them, well. . ."

Flint looked at him with an unreadable expression. "What did you do?"

"Nothing unforgivable," Brennan insisted. "I left them in care of the captain on the ship we were traveling on, in exchange for use of the rowboat. The English would have hanged me if they caught us. I was trying to draw their attention, I was trying to protect the lads, I swear. But you can see, perhaps, why they. . . may not think the same."

Flint blinked, then barked an incredulous laugh. "You miserable chickenshit."

"So it's true, what he said," Will remarked. "Lieutenant Jones. You sold your sons into slavery for a rowboat. And the rest of _us_ like to think we have the cold-blooded stomach for piracy?"

"It wasn't slavery." Brennan looked defiant. "What kind of father would I have been if I let all of us be captured by the bloody English? They'd likely have been sent to the orphanage or the workhouse anyway, or no other good lot. At least by leaving them on the ship to become honest sailors, I knew they had as much a future as I could give them."

"And you never once went back to find 'em?" Will regarded the Irishman with incredulous disbelief. "All of us have done shit things, but at least we own up to it. Your past and your choices are your own, mate, but don't sit there and act like it was some noble sacrifice. You said you had to make a decision, and it's bloody well apparent what you decided. Pirates understand hard choices for survival. We're a lot less fuckin' fond of cowards and liars."

Flint grinned, with extra teeth. "It's rather a change to be in a company where I'm not the biggest backstabber," he remarked. "It happens so rarely. I commend you, Mr. Jones. No fatherly desire at all to find them – to, say, sell the rest of us out to the Navy if you thought it would induce them to forgive you? Or is it, despite all the excuses you've clearly worked out at length, you know there are some sins that can never be forgiven?"

Brennan opened, then shut, his mouth, apparently at least canny enough to understand that Flint was setting him up to declare himself either a traitor or a coward. After a moment he said, "I do not intend to betray the _Blackbird's_ crew, no. They did save my life, after all."

"Be a shame, then, if your sons discovered not only that you were alive, but uninterested in resuming filial relations, wouldn't it?" Flint looked mildly at Brennan, then over to Will, as if to be sure that he was observing this. Aye, he bloody well was observing this. Like watching a spider toy with a fly, or rather flies, while the flies still optimistically thought they could disentangle themselves whenever they wanted and buzz away. "And if they were inclined to extend that grudge to the entire ship? You'd want, indeed, to be long gone."

"Fine," Will said. "We'll agree to your plan, you can take the _Blackbird's_ guns, you can sail off to wherever up Spain's arse you intend to go, we'll sit here on the beach hopin' Barbossa don't pop by to take some pot shots, the whole nine. Only one condition."

Flint arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah." Will looked at him flatly. "What happened to Billy Bones?"

There was a brief, extraordinarily delicate pause, which was enough to let him know, thick as a concussed ox or not, that his stab in the dark just might have hit something. He and Bones weren't _friends,_ per se, but they got along, and during Emma's apprenticeship under Flint, they had had occasion to pass the time together, to drink and play cards and shoot the shit, to come up with the notion, never quite spoken aloud but understood nonetheless, that the pair of them were decent, loyal men in a world that was anything but. In a place like New Providence, where all most folk cared about was the size of their profit margins, such an attitude was suspicious and potentially threatening. You could buy a dishonest man; you couldn't buy an honest one, and hence you could not control him. And before they agreed to this insane proposition of Flint's, to let him skin off their livelihood and their protection and hope one of the pieces that the Spanish man-of-war blew him into was large enough to float back to them, Will thought he was damn well entitled to a straight answer about just what might have happened to the last man to – if he knew Bones at all, and he did – start raising questions about the cost of it.

"I told Emma," Flint said, after a slightly too-long pause. "He was swept overboard in the night, as we escaped the _Scarborough_. It was an unfortunate accident."

"Aye, because accidents usually happen on your ship." Will reached over, helped himself to Flint's rum bottle, and took a sip. "We're all friends though, aren't we? Plenty of terrible things to go round. Brennan's lads are probably going to strap a cannon to his arse once they find out his shit job, Felix is just a total git, and me, well, one night in the tavern, I'd had a bit much and I picked a fight with some fop in fancy clothes. Had sideburns, I don't trust men with sideburns. Anyway, then this shaggy-haired pillock intervened, I asked him who the fuck he thought he was, and next thing I know I'm flat on me face while he's whalin' on me. Probably would have been the end of poor old Will Scarlet, if Miss Guthrie hadn't turned up just then and asked him, in turn, the fuck was he doing. Turns out the sideburned fop was Jack Rackham, quartermaster on the _Ranger,_ and the _Ranger's_ captain was the aforesaid pillock thrashin' bleeding Jesus out of me. So that's the story of the time I nearly got meself killed by Charles Vane, the only reason I didn't bein' because that was when he and Miss Guthrie used to fuck, and s'pose he figured he wouldn't get laid that night if he committed needless homicide bang in front of her. Needless homicide, you know, being Vane's bit otherwise. So like I said, we're all sinners here, eh? Nothing to fear. What did you do to Billy?"

"Despite that charming tale," Flint said, "as I said, nothing. He went overboard. Isn't it so, Mr. Gates?"

His quartermaster hesitated only slightly. "Aye, it was at that. You can ask among the crew, they saw it. So since that's the case, you'll be holding to your agreement and permitting us use of the _Blackbird's_ guns?"

Will didn't answer. It was true that their odds of rescuing Emma from the bloody Navy were to be despaired of, and putting more of them in harm's way might just result in a dozen extra pairs of boots dangling over Port Royal. Overall, the pirates' cause could survive the loss of Emma; it could not survive the loss of Flint. But that still didn't mean he was obliged to stop trying, as long as the possibility existed in whatever small part, and make it easier for the bastards. He'd grown up on Antigua, an orphan raised by Robin Locksley, the castellan of Fort Berkeley, and witnessed the Navy's corruption, incompetence, and brutality first-hand. He worked as Robin's assistant, running various menial errands for the captains whose ships were being refitted in the dockyard, and in all that time, only one or two had ever treated him remotely decently. The rest shouted and cursed, or didn't even acknowledge his existence, or called him "boy" and expected him to do their bidding like a dog, or gave him the back of their fists. One particularly sadistic captain had tried to take him aboard his vessel, when he was only nine years old, for the thinly veiled purpose of raping and abusing him. While Robin did his best to shield Will from the worst influences, to carry out his own service to the Army as honorably as possible, it wasn't enough. Will could see that if he was going to have any future he would be able to stomach, short as it might be, it bloody well wasn't on this side of the law. No wonder he'd run away when he turned eighteen, made his way to New Providence, joined Emma's crew soon after she arrived on the island and then was accepted into Flint's tutelage – indeed, he was the first man she had ever taken on, and his loyalty to her had never wavered. He might well be hanged as a criminal, but at least he wasn't going to die as one of those soulless fucking beasts.

Briefly, he thought of Lieutenant Jones again, and what he'd said in the cave. _Once you lowlifes extort Liam for my return, I'll be pleased to do exactly what we were engaged for, and hunt you all down like dogs._ It wouldn't surprise Will if so, but there was more. That they might be Irish gutter scum, but not hypocrites, and hence ran the _Imperator_ as they did. Him telling the poor chap that he and his brother should just have gone pirate. And Will had to admit, it was bloody difficult to sit calmly next to Brennan Jones, knowing what he had done, and not want to rip his throat out on the spot. Not out of some tender personal considerations for the Jones brothers; God, no. If Macintosh died as a result of being shot by the captain, there'd be a reckoning. But no matter what form it came in, one thing every pirate hated, possibly more even than the Navy, was slavery. Nor were they hypocrites either – that was why they ran their republic as a democracy, attacked slave ships and treated Negroes, Chinamen, and Indians the same as whites, elected leaders and deposed tyrants, maintained a rough but genuine egalitarian spirit. And if he intended on staying in this world, Brennan bloody Jones was going to have to pay for that crime, and then some.

"Well?" Flint said, when Will still hadn't answered. "Yes or no?"

Will opened his mouth, entirely unsure what he was going to say – it was plain that neither of them were going to compromise, and furthermore that this would cause notable difficulty with implementation of any succeeding ideas. But at that moment there was a knock on the door, it opened without waiting for an answer, and a voice said, "Captain, you and the others will be wanting supper, surely?"

Flint's gingery brows drew down in a look of complete disgust. "I don't remember summoning you _or_ your half-cooked pig, Silver."

"Sorry." The newcomer – yet another black-haired, charming, slimy wanker, just because there weren't enough of those floating around right now – grinned deferentially, holding out a platter of what could optimistically be termed food. "I imagined it was hungry work up here, and I didn't think those greedy-guts should have it all. But you know, I couldn't help but accidentally overhear this fascinating conversation. Now, this very well may be nothing, but my father – also John Silver, by the way – he was a grain merchant. And just before I ran away from home, he had recently acquired two indentured servants to work aboard his ship, after their old owner lost them to him in a card game. Brothers. Liam and Killian Jones by name."

There was a rather fraught pause. Nobody seemed entirely certain how to respond to this, which left Silver – clearly a fellow who liked the sound of his own voice – to continue at leisure. "My curiosity, then, comes from the fact that a few years later, I saw a notice in the Bristol shipping register that my father's vessel, the _Benjamin Gunn,_ had been lost with all hands, and the indemnities on it paid out by the assurance agent, Mr. Plouton. So how, then, should it be possible that these two brothers not only managed to avoid going down with the rest of the _Ben Gunn_ , but achieved promotion to commissioned officers in the Royal Navy? It _could_ be another Liam and Killian Jones, of course. . . but I think the odds of that are most unlikely."

"I'm surprised to hear you had a father," Flint said after a moment. "I thought you merely sprang fully formed out of some annoying cesspit."

"Come now, Captain. We all have fathers, don't we? I'd wager there was even a Mr. and Mrs. Flint, back in the day. Or whatever name your family used before you took up in piracy. As I said, it's rather strange, isn't it? Fate smiling so kindly on two wretched nobodies, to the point they're now in command of their own ship in the Royal Navy? The sort of luck most pirates would strangle their own aged grandmothers to possess? It seems dangerous to turn your back on those kind of men for long."

"So what?" Flint regarded him incredulously. "What are you suggesting we do, turn away from the _Urca_ to find these two shits who somehow escaped the shipwreck that killed your father? Grieving son after all this time, hell-bent on revenge? Don't expect me to buy that."

"Me?" Silver looked surprised. "Fuck, no. My father was an utter ass, why do you think I ran away? I couldn't care less if he drowned. My interest was, and remains, in five million Spanish dollars. But I'm also advising you, as a friend, that you should not underestimate the bastards chasing us, and the damage they could not only start but continue doing to our cause if they were allowed to take the _Blackbird's_ captain without a fight. If they're men just as diabolically lucky as you are, Captain, but on the other side of the coin, we could be in trouble."

"And?" Flint continued to look categorically skeptical, not least at Silver calling him a friend. "What do you want out of this? A medal?"

"Survival isn't enough?" Again Silver flashed that crooked, self-deprecating smile. Will wished he would stop; it was getting on his bloody nerves. "The thing is, I very much do not want to die before I get the chance to spend my share of the Spanish gold, and ignoring the _Imperator_ seems like a good way to increase the chances that I do. So yes, by all means, let us secure the guns and take the prize as we planned, but once we finish, we should have some sort of strategy for the rest of it. And you – " Silver turned to Brennan – "you _are_ their father, aren't you? Nearly as good at it as mine was, by the sound of things. And as the captain said, wouldn't it be massively unfortunate if they were to find that out?"

"You know," Flint said, close to a growl. "You could at least have the decency to _pretend_ you haven't been standing outside the door, eavesdropping on the conversation, this entire time."

"Well then. Perhaps you should just open it, let me in, and we can discuss matters without the delay." Silver shrugged. "Especially when, as perhaps you are all starting to see, our lives may depend on you doing just that."

" _Really?_ And how?"

"Oh." Silver smiled modestly. "You just leave that to me."

* * *

There was nothing to do but bunk down for the windblown, rocking, creaking, spray-frothed hours of darkness, and wait for the storm to pass. Run solidly aground on the beach, they at least were in no further danger of sinking, but that also meant the ship could not move with the gusts, and had to withstand them in one place. To judge from the racket and groaning of swaying yards and screaming lines, the deck was going to be a bloody mess in the morning, and it was an open question as to whether they would then be in any condition to dig the _Imperator_ out of the sand and attempt to go anywhere else. When Killian chanced a peek out the stern window, he saw the angry grey cauldron of the sea slamming up against the exposed rudder with every crash of the waves, and winced. Break that, and they might as well ride down to the French colonial offices in Port-au-Prince and apply to become permanent residents. Not that such a formality would be necessary, as the French had barely chased their own local pirates, the _flibustiers,_ out of the island, their old capital city of Ester had recently burned down, and their new administrative foothold couldn't amount to much more than a few palm trees and thatched huts, but still. The point was, they'd be fucked.

Killian turned restlessly away, unable to judge how long it might be until dawn, and how strong the tempest still was; it must be bloody madness further out at sea. _At least we're not riding it out there._ As such, after she helped first get them to land, then the hellish procedure with Liam, he had felt it most unchivalrous to simply shut Emma Swan peremptorily back into the brig, even if by rights he should. He didn't _think_ she was going to try to escape – where exactly would she run, on a deserted beach in the middle of the night during a hurricane, with violent sea to one side and impenetrable jungle to the other three? Likewise, it was indecorous to make a lady sleep rough. So he had given her his bed, taken the cushions off the window seat and some of the spare clothes out of the trunk, and made a makeshift pallet on the floor next to Liam's bunk. He dozed a bit, fitful and uncomfortable and jerking awake every half-hour or so to make sure Liam was still breathing – which he was, shallowly and painfully. Once or twice he moaned in his sleep, but didn't wake.

And so, as Emma had also given into exhaustion and sunk into deep slumber, Killian stood in the cabin, effectively alone, watching the storm rage and taking in the weight of his new command. Hopper had gone to tell the men, and as they hadn't yet boiled up to the deck and jumped over the side screaming, preferring to drown rather than take their chances with his captaining them, Killian hoped they'd peaceably – or peaceably enough – acquiesce to the handover. Still, there were several of them who knew they could push his buttons in a way they couldn't with Liam, and who might be inclined to test his mettle first thing.

 _Captain Killian Jones._ He said it to himself again, quietly, before returning reluctantly to his uncomfortable bed and lying down, knowing he desperately needed at least a few more hours of rest. As long as he didn't wake up to find Liam dead and Emma gone, everything else would be manageable. Just enough. Just for now. He couldn't fail. Had to be enough. Had to be.

Despite everything, he must indeed have slept, because he blinked his eyes open to find the cabin filled with wet grey light, a ringing, eerie silence where the howling of the wind had been, and a ferocious cramp in his back from passing the night on bare boards. He got clumsily to his feet, grimacing, and checked Emma; she was still out. So, for that matter, was Liam. Killian pulled back the blanket to check the dressing on his shoulder, as it would be very bad if he had bled through it in the night, but it was clean. He cautiously untied a few layers of the bandage, trying to see how the cautery-seals were holding up, as Liam stirred slightly and groaned. A crack of pained blue showed under his eyelids. "Feel like. . . a bloody dragon. . . bit my damn arm off."

Killian bit his lip. "We have a bit of laudanum left in the chest," he said, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Emma. "I'll give you some if it would help."

Liam made a face, as laudanum was one of the vilest substances on God's earth – thick, brown, oily, violently bitter – and Killian could not fathom how men ever supposedly got addicted to it. "I think. . . I'd rather suffer. What time. . . is it?"

Killian checked the great hourglass. "About six in the morning. Storm seems to be passed, though I don't know how much damage it's left us with. I don't think any of the masts broke, that would certainly have woken me. The rest, well, I imagine we can make do."

Liam smiled faintly. His gaze flickered to the sight of Emma asleep in the other bed, and he raised an eyebrow, but didn't openly question Killian's decision. Instead, he settled back with a pained sigh. "Bloody hungry, but don't think I could stomach food right now. At least. . . water, though?"

"Aye, of course." That at least was the one thing they should have in plenty, and Killian got the cabin's kettle, opened the door, and stepped out into the cloudy, steamy, sweltering morning, enough to instantly render him sodden from head to heel with the combined anvil of humidity and sweat. He foraged across the tilted, slippery deck to the rain barrel, dipped up a kettleful, and took the opportunity to assess the state of the vessel. The shrouds were in complete disarray, the foresail had been torn as part of the broken spar that wounded Liam, and – rather fortunately, perhaps – the anchor had rattled loose and fallen heavily in the sand. The rudder was battered, but not snapped, and everything else, while it would be labor-intensive and annoying to go through, could probably be repaired in a day or two. The _Imperator_ was just as stubborn and indomitable as her masters, evidently.

Letting out a hearty breath of relief, Killian patted the deck railing affectionately and returned to the cabin, where he poured out a goblet of water for Liam and helped prop him upright to drink it. Then he laid him carefully back down as Liam closed his eyes, clearly chafing at being unable to spring out of bed and take charge as usual. "How bad is it?"

"Not terrible. It would have been far worse if she hadn't helped us."

Once more Liam raised an eyebrow, but evidently reminded himself that he _had_ handed over captaincy, and thus had to restrain from openly critical remarks. It was plain enough that he did not necessarily think this warranted leniency, but was going to give Killian a fair shake to handle it, and Killian himself gave his brother a wry look. "Shut up and heal, then you can complain."

"Doing my best," Liam murmured, settling heavily against the pillows. It was plain he was still hurting a great deal, and Killian wondered suddenly if his refusal to take laudanum was also because he did not want to be in an opiate stupor if some (or rather, another) major emergency did arise, and thus unavailable for consultation. He was both touched and slightly vexed by it. Aye, of course he'd want Liam able to give advice if things turned further sideways, but the fact that his brother thought he had to deny himself medicine just in case Killian couldn't handle it. . . Christ, he was a stubborn arse. But that was just Liam's way. He had always sacrificed everything, his own mind and body and soul, for Killian's well-being. The least he could do in return was not royally cock it up.

The crew was beginning to wake up, and Killian, feeling foolish in the extreme but deciding appearances had to be attended to, put on Liam's captain's coat and hat and went out to address them. He made it plain that their situation was recoverable, that if they followed his word in good order he would get them out of here, and continue their journey north to join the _Scarborough_ with no more than minor inconvenience. Liam was indisposed, but likewise not mortally, and he expected the same sort of compliance to his command that they were accustomed to giving his brother. This was, after all, a proud Royal Navy vessel, and he expected their best show in these difficult times. All they had to do was carry on, and he'd also allow them an extra grog ration tonight, for their travail.

This got a respectable huzzah, and the men set to work with more or less good will. They repaired and restrung the shrouds, made adjustments to the sails to compensate for the broken spar, reeled the anchor in, and got spades to start digging the keel out from where it had lodged in the sand, while others tied lines to the railing and tried to heave her back in the water to check for leaks. The sky was still overcast, periodically spitting squalls of rain, and Killian kept nervously checking the horizon in case the wind had changed and was blowing the brunt of the storm back in their direction. He had pulled a rope for most of the morning, his arms aching and his hands raw with oakum and filthy with tar, and finally went inside his cabin for a brief respite.

Emma was awake and dressed, keeping an eye on the presently unconscious Liam but, for obvious reasons, feeling it unsafe to emerge onto the deck with the rest of the men. As well, she couldn't be that eager to help get a Navy vessel back into commission to help chase her friends and crewmates, but she looked at him with a faint but genuine smile. "How is the first day of command going, Captain?"

It gave him an absurd, impossible thrill to hear her call him that, to make it real, more than just an abstract circumstance or short-term emergency arrangement – even if it was. He splashed his hands in the bowl, instantly turning the water black, and reached for the cake of rough lye soap. "Well, they're doing what I say, nobody's mutinied or declared me unfit, and we should be on our way again hopefully by tomorrow, if the weather holds up. While you're unavoidably detained here in the cabin, I don't suppose you could have another look at the charts and mark a suitable course for us?"

Emma raised both eyebrows at him, as if to remark that she was unavoidably detained no matter where she was on the _Imperator,_ brig or cabin, and that it was quite an ask on his part to not only trust her with access to the charts again, but think she would plot a course with their best interests in mind. "You'd trust me to do that? You know we're not on the same side."

"A – aye. I know." It troubled him, ever so slightly, even if he told himself it shouldn't. "But you got us to land, and it would have been much worse if you hadn't helped, so. . . thank you."

"You're welcome," Emma said. "But saving a ship that I myself am traveling on is a different matter than actively helping you find the bloody _Scarborough_ and get back in the pirate-hunting business. I'm no traitor, Captain Jones. I have to refuse."

There was a tense moment as they stared each other down, the words on the tip of his tongue that she was a pirate, of course she was a traitor, and that if she did this, if she gave some measurable proof of her benevolent or at least redeemable nature, he could use it before a judge to ask them to spare her life. He did not want to watch her die on the gallows at Port Royal. Bloody hell, he didn't. "Madam," he said after a moment, stiffly, trying to recover some of his lost footing. "I know you understand the exigency of your situation – you are our _prisoner,_ and further insubordination of English law and your rightful allegiances will not be well regarded by the Admiralty and the administration of – "

"So that _is_ what you're planning to do?" Emma looked at him defiantly. "Hand me over to the Admiralty? In which case, no matter what I do, my sentence won't change. I have no incentive to help you in any further way if I'm still going to hang for it."

"You're not going to hang." It blurted to his lips before he could stop it, and he could have kicked himself. "I won't let them. That is, I mean, you already assisted in saving the _Imperator_ and our crew, and with Liam when he – when he was injured, so they could be persuaded. . ."

"It's not enough," Emma said, almost gently. "You know it's not."

"You could repent." Once again, he couldn't stop himself. "They can't _want_ to kill you. It's never a good look to be hanging a woman. If you just said you were sorry, that you had no choice, they'd give you a light sentence – flogging, or transportation, or – or – I don't know, they'd just do something terrible like make you wear lace and learn embroidery."

"And how is wearing lace and learning embroidery going to provide for my family?" Emma countered flatly. "My brother, and my – my son? What good does it do them if I get sent to the mainland, or back to England, or anywhere else? Make a few miserly pennies a day?"

"You have a son?" He blinked. "I wouldn't think – you don't. . . I mean. . ."

She half-smiled. "Aye. His name is Henry. He was born when I was younger. I don't want to go into the details."

Killian was on the brink of retorting that it certainly would do her lad no good at all if she was hanged as an unrepentant pirate captain, but bit his tongue instead. The _Blackbird_ was her entire life, her friends and her place of business and her home and as much as a family as she could have, and he was asking her to sell it out to plead mercy from some fat fool of a judge halfway up the Admiralty's backside anyway. It was similar to asking him to give up Liam and the _Imperator_ and everything else he valued, just to save his own neck, and knowing the unlikelihood of him doing any such thing, had to admit the odds were not good for her. He remembered what Robin had said back at Fort Berkeley, warning them that they were some of the few men who understood what the pirates had to fight for, and the lengths they would go to keep it. But why wouldn't she just understand what was at stake? That at some point or another, they would have to return to Antigua, and that unless she – unless he closed his eyes and let her jump ship, turned his back and committed more treason and let her get away – there was no way for this to end well for her. And no matter if this was the very reason Regina Mills had hired them, to see Captain Swan and her ship destroyed, he was less and less sure he wanted to go through with it. Yet if they failed Regina, and she dropped a word in any of the well-placed ears conveniently available to her, and Gold learned of it, and. . . and. . . he had to give her over to the bastards, he had to, there was nothing and no other choice that he could see without –

 _No,_ Killian told himself, horrified. _Absolutely not._ He was a Royal Navy captain; he was not about to dishonor that responsibility in his first six hours on the job. Emma Swan had chosen her own path. She would, therefore, face the consequences.

"Very well, madam," he said coolly. "So be it."

The crew worked through the afternoon and evening in shifts, as Killian kept them rotating, went down to the surgery to see how the wounded men were doing, and satisfied himself that they would be able to set sail again by tomorrow. After his tense encounter with Emma, he had sent her to the second, smaller cabin, the one Gold had used during the crossing from England, and locked her in; it was a more comfortable confinement than the brig, to be sure, but it did not do for either of them to forget any further that she was a prisoner. Thrown together by danger, storm, and injury, forced to trust each other for survival, the lines had been briefly blurred, but they could not be again. Nor would it do for the crew to take any notions into their head as to whether their new captain could be trusted to deal appropriately with rule-breakers and captive pirates. He had only done what was right and fair.

Nonetheless, Killian was out of temper at the end of the evening, having had Hopper come by again to check on Liam, change the dressing, and see how well the wound was granulating. Liam was drowsy, irritable, and in considerable pain, snapping like a baited bear, until Hopper finally poured him a tipple of rum, splashed several droplets of laudanum into it, and said, "Drink it, Capt – sir. You have a hole clear through your shoulder, nobody expects you to suffer it completely sober."

Liam looked at him balefully, but drank, grimaced, and shortly was much quieter. After Hopper had packed away his things and departed, Killian sat at the table, plotting out the course by himself and trying to ignore the fact that the surgeon's mate had left the nearly full rum bottle behind, in case Liam should need to be administered more liquid doses of shut-the-fuck-up. A sip would taste so good, ease his frazzled nerves, make the task seem less impossible and insurmountable, and he kept looking up at it, as if expecting it to have sprouted small legs and be darting from place to place around the cabin, taunting him. Finally, having completed his reckonings and being reasonably sure that they would get them where they wanted to go, he ran the math. About four hundred and thirty miles from their current location on the northern coast of Saint-Domingue to Governor's Harbour, on Eleuthera, where the _Scarborough_ was most often based out of. With their lightened weight and the wind at their back, they could make almost ten knots an hour – eleven, if they pushed it. That worked out to a voyage of, at the most optimistic end of the estimate, about a day and a half. Not nearly enough bloody time to work out what the hell to do about Captain Emma Swan.

Killian growled under his breath, threw the compass down, and gave up. Walked over, got the rum bottle, and twisted it open, gulping a few deep swallows before he could stop himself. It burned all the way down, and made him very much want to cough his lungs out, as he was out of practice at it, but Christ, it tasted good. He paused, considered it, then took another one, feeling lightheaded and defiant. He and Liam had served aboard three ships during their indenture. The first one, the _Pandora,_ was where they'd been sold, and Captain Freeman liked to hit, but he wasn't the deeply bred cruel of some of the others. But when they got a bit older, he didn't want to be responsible for paying extra to feed them, and needed money besides, so he sold them to Captain Phineas Campbell of the _Mary Elizabeth_ –he'd nearly only sold Killian, considering him the useless one, but Liam absolutely refused. It was on Campbell's vessel that Killian had had his first sip of rum at age thirteen, after the first time he had been flogged, crying in Liam's arms belowdecks while his brother tried to comfort him. After the crew had caught him with the book Liam had stolen for him, _The Travels of Sir John Mandeville,_ and thrown it overboard, his one and most precious possession. Nor would it be the first time for either the drinking or the whipping. Campbell was a bully, a sot, and a brute who ran his ship with an iron fist, so that by the time he lost the Jones brothers in a game of cards to one Captain John Silver of the _Benjamin Gunn_ , Killian was almost inclined to regard it as a miraculous deliverance. It had not taken him long to discover the error of that presumption.

He regarded the bottle a moment longer, then took another sip. Carried it back to the table, tried to return to the logistics of his course, but he'd charted most of it already, and the arms of the drink were much more comforting. Christ knew he didn't have anyone else to lean on, just the minute. He _was_ captain, after all. That had to be good for doing what he wanted, just for a night.

Just for a night.

* * *

Killian's head was thick and cottony, his tongue heavy as lead and the light tormenting his eyes, by the time he peeled himself off the desk the next morning, felt instantly ashamed by the realization that he had drunk all the rum, left none for Liam, and missed the first bell as well. He flew upright, got on his coat and hat and made it to where the crew was bemusedly waiting for him, unaccustomed to him being late, and tried to disguise it as he gave crisp orders for them to set sail for Eleuthera. The _Imperator_ was battered but operable, they'd finally hauled her free of the beach, and there was a general cheer as she raised canvas to take the freshening breeze off the land. Within an hour or so, the wild coastline was shrinking astern, the air was still hot and heavy but not presently storming, and Killian had the sense once or twice that someone was watching him from the windows of the passenger cabin. Well, of course it wasn't just bloody "someone"; he knew exactly who it was. Just as well that she hadn't been around to see his weakness. Though she still might, come to that. The seas were high and rough, and it was not a good combination with the level of alcohol he had consumed last night. He would be absolutely fucking _damned,_ however, if he was going to retch over the side in front of everyone.

For this and other reasons, Killian elected for a tactical retreat back to the cabin, swallowing heavily a few times and making sure that Liam was still unconscious, which he was; laudanum always knocked him down for the count. His color was slightly better, but still off, and there was a feverish shine on his forehead, as he tossed and muttered restlessly without waking up. He'd always had the constitution of an ox, had rarely been ill a day that Killian could remember, and seeing him like this was deeply unsettling.

Very well, then. One of them was already compromised, no need to voluntarily do the same to the other. Certainly no more rum, as they were heading into the heart of pirate waters now and he would need all his wits for any potential confrontation. Most ships would give them a wide berth, choosing to flee rather than engage, but there was always the possibility that one reckless, piss-drunk captain would decide to teach the Navy a lesson for poking its nose into their territory. From what Killian had heard, there were certainly a few with the temperament for it.

Yet the horizon remained empty, no sails or other vessels spotted in all directions. The distance was broad enough that this was not completely unusual, but still it put him on his guard. If they had all been drawn elsewhere, that was a disturbing prospect too, although what for was impossible to say. Had the _Walrus_ collected a coterie of allies and returned to go after them, thinking (correctly) that they might be weakened and more vulnerable than usual, that this was the time to strike? It was not out of the realm of possibility. Killian had heard whispers back in Whitehall that before he was the feared Captain Flint, leading brigands and barbarians beneath the black flag, the man had been one Lieutenant James McGraw, a promising young officer in the Royal Navy whose career was destroyed by some mysterious and unexplained scandal, and he had fled in disgrace to the Indies to take up a new life as a pirate. Thus, he might well consider this a matter of personal revenge, and realizing the potential similarity of their trajectories gave Killian a cold grue. _I am not going to wind up like him. I bloody well am not._

They sailed all day, driven before the raging wind, and through the night. Liam woke briefly to have a piss, a drink of water, and a nibble of bread, through he threw it up shortly thereafter. It was plain that he hated Killian to have to see his weakness, and while they managed to get some water into him that he kept down this time, he still looked grim. "We making. . . for Eleuthera?"

"Aye." Killian hoped Liam would forget to ask about the rum bottle; perhaps he could just say it had fallen and broken. "And I know you want to stay on the ship, Li, but I think we need to get you some proper care and a place to recuperate. There has to be a lodging house in Governor's Harbour where we can put you."

"I don't want to leave the ship."

"I know you don't, but it's what's best for you." Killian couldn't help but notice the strangeness of those words coming from him, him being the one to bear up Liam in his infirmity, when it had so often – indeed, always – been the other way around. "And as I am acting captain of the _Imperator,_ that means, last I checked, that I do have the authority to put you on the beach if you're not fit for duty. Bloody hell, Liam, don't argue with me about this. For once."

Liam looked deeply unenthused, but was in enough discomfort to actually do as ordered (though not without another leery look). There were spots of blood and pus on his bandages, the cauterization still holding but the burned and mauled flesh looking ugly and vitiated, and it was clear that to move his arm at all was immensely painful. Killian forced away the thought that they might have to chop the whole thing off if gangrene set in, always a frightening possibility, and that was the kind of amputation a man was more likely to bleed to death from than survive. So, though both of them hated the necessity, Killian gave him another dose of laudanum, then sat on the bed next to him until he'd fallen under. Perhaps Liam would ultimately remember none of this, which he had to admit, might not be the worst thing in the world.

He caught a few fractured interludes of sleep until sunrise, and the lookout knocked on the cabin door to report they had sighted land. Eleuthera was a very long, very thin island, more of an extended barrier reef than anything, just fifty miles east of Nassau, and Killian had ordered the crew to sail with the cannons loaded, as he didn't want to be taken off guard by any prowlers. He of course was hoping to avoid another engagement so soon, as he couldn't be sure that their temporary repairs would hold through a second full-scale gun battle, but there did not appear to be any trouble – yet, at least. There might be plenty to follow, but best to parcel it out.

In another two hours, they were within sight of the sentry towers on the harbor headland, and Killian sent a man with the semaphore flags up the rigging. In contrast to the stout stone fortifications of Antigua, well provided with weaponry and garrisoned by permanent detachments of redcoats, the defenses on Eleuthera did not amount to much more than a double wooden palisade and a few balky old heavy field guns that looked like something Cavaliers and Roundheads had shot at (and probably missed, knowing those things and their accuracy) each other with. There were a small number of redcoats stationed here, but for the most part the island relied on the _Scarborough_ for defense, which must be causing them sleepless nights with it often out to sea chasing their increasingly powerful neighbors to the west.

Thus, the sight of the _Imperator_ was clearly a welcome relief, and they were quickly signaled back and shown into the harbor, mooring up at the quay. Killian did not want the crew to go far, so he allowed that they could leave the vessel but not the port, and be ready to return on short notice. He himself quietly deputed a few of them he trusted more to keep watch on the passenger cabin where Emma was locked, then with the assistance of Hopper and Whale (miraculously sober for the occasion) and a few others, hoisted Liam onto a litter and carried him ashore.

Asking for a local hospital got them sent in the direction of a large white villa, walled and gated, that when knocked upon in search of a doctor obtained them a meeting with one Farquhar Buzzard. He was, he insisted, actually a doctor, having trained at the Royal College of Physicians in London, and that _yes,_ thank you, that was his Christian name and he did not see anything outstandingly humorous about it. He had been sent out here with the Army and had treated wounded officers before, of course he would be willing to take Liam into care, but he had clearly not at all appreciated Killian having to ask, stifling laughter, if he was to call him Dr. Buzzard or just Farq Buzz for short. To this, the doctor made a comment, not entirely under his breath, that while his name might be unusual, at least it was not _Irish._ Relations were only doomed to further disrepair from there.

Nonetheless, he did at least appear to know what he was doing, and Killian bit his tongue long enough to get Liam settled in one of the patients' rooms, whereupon he was freshly appalled by the figure that the good doctor named as the price of a fortnight of care. Killian growled that decent buzzards at least waited until you were actually bloody dead to pick you clean, but he couldn't take the risk of consigning Liam to some filthy, disease-ridden hellhole, and went back to the ship to collect an advance of capital. "There," he grumbled, once it was paid. "Dr. Fraudulent Bastard had best be some sort of bloody miracle worker."

Liam gave him a look. "Excuse me, Doctor _what?_ Wasn't it Farquhar?"

"Yes, of course. What did I say?"

Liam sighed, still clearly not at all resigned to the necessity of staying here, but realizing it could be much worse. "Try not to get me accidentally poisoned, would you?"

"Of course not." Killian managed a smile, then leaned down to kiss his brother's unshaven cheek, dismayed to find that he was holding back tears. This likewise would be the longest he had ever been separated from Liam in his life, and no matter how much he wanted his chance, he was not so strong as to remain completely unaffected by it. He felt shaky, half of himself, as if he would have to walk out the door and not look back. "Please don't die on me then, eh?"

"Aye, of course not." Liam squeezed his hand. "Don't worry. He might not have much of a sense of humor, but he'll take care of me. Do what you have to, I'll be here."

"Aye," Killian echoed, kissing Liam quickly one more time before straightening up. Gathering himself, he went down, assured Fartingfar Blowhard that he would be back as soon as possible, and headed out into the street.

His men had been asking about while he was getting Liam settled, and returned with the news that the _Scarborough_ herself had just returned, slightly up the coast at one of the more secluded beaches. As it was faster to row, rather than go to the bother of getting the _Imperator_ unmoored and under sail for such a short journey, Killian and a dozen others got into the ship's boat and headed north.

Before long, they hauled around a high bluff and into the crystalline lagoon beyond, where the _Scarborough,_ a fifth-rater of thirty-two guns, was anchored in the inlet. It likewise looked as if it had been having an adventurous go of things recently, and they enthusiastically waved the Union Jack to make it clear they were fellow Navy men, and not an attempted ambush. They made landfall, clambered out of the boat, and headed down the beach to where a small party was gathered, attending to some fascinating occupation. But upon sight of the new arrivals, the officers came to make introductions. A tall, thickset man with fleshy lips, a face Killian instinctively disliked, and a somewhat superior manner stepped forward. "Captain Josiah Hume, of HMS _Scarborough._ And you are?"

"Captain Killian Jones, of HMS _Imperator."_ He shook the other's sweaty hand, resisting the urge to wipe his palm on his trousers. He considered explaining that he was only acting captain, but decided on the spot that he wasn't going to give this cretin any extra leverage over him. "We've been making north in hopes of rendezvousing with you, but we were delayed by the hurricane. In search of a pirate vessel, the _Blackbird."_

"How interesting. We've been doing the same, for one _Walrus."_ Captain Hume smiled, not entirely warmly. "And, interestingly, we may just have a lead. Once he stops being obstinate, that is."

"What? You captured one of them?"

Captain Hume raised an eyebrow, then beckoned them forward to see what had been commanding the others' attention. Killian felt his heart briefly skip a beat as he looked down at the man – well, clearly the pirate – who had been spread out on the beach, wrists and ankles tied with rawhide to stakes hammered into the sand, far enough to almost dislocate his limbs. He was half conscious, battered and sunburned, lips cracked and bleeding with thirst, clearly an imposing fellow in the usual course of things – tall, blonde, heavily muscled. One of the _Scarborough's_ sailors had been periodically pouring salt water on his leather vest, then letting it bake burning hot in the sun, so that it was rotting into an impromptu iron maiden cage. His eyes, lucid for half a moment, met Killian's as if begging for help, then went out of focus again.

"What?" Killian said, as neutrally as he could. "You're torturing him?"

Captain Hume seemed baffled that this even had to be stated. "Did it look as if we were throwing him a garden party in Versailles? He's a pirate. More than that, he's one of that bastard Flint's own crew. We saw him with the captain when we paid a surprise call on Richard Guthrie, just up at Harbor Island. Luckily, we picked him up out of the water after the _Walrus_ managed to give us the slip, and I expect we'll get him to talk before much longer. No man can endure this heat without water forever." He smiled, which Killian was rapidly coming to hate, and dug the toe of his boot into the captive's side, then kicked him smartly in the ribs. "Can you, you stinking shit?"

Killian gritted his teeth. Knowing in an academic way that Royal Navy captains had a well-deserved reputation for wanton and excessive brutality was not the same as seeing it in front of him. He wanted to feel proud of his new position, not ashamed of sharing it with this smirking fat fuck. "Have all your no doubt spectacular interrogation techniques gotten the least bit of useful information out of him, then? Such as who he actually bloody is?"

"All he's coughed up is _Bones."_ Captain Hume eyed Killian narrowly, clearly not having expected any challenge, even indirectly, of his pirate-questioning methods. "Which, frankly, doesn't even sound like a man's real name, so he'll repent of it at leisure. But you said you've been hunting a pirate vessel of your own. Have you managed to get your hands on anyone from the _Blackbird,_ then?"

Killian hesitated half a moment. "No."

"Well then, it seems I might have a few things to teach you. Even if I _am_ only the master of a lowly fifth-rate." Captain Hume was clearly enjoying the fact that he got to rub his victory in the face of a third-rater. Arsehole. "All those guns and no idea how to use them?"

"We took a third off them off in Antigua," Killian said coldly. "For speed. We're only mounting forty at present, so we're essentially the same rate as you. And you seem to have the torturing of prisoners quite well accomplished, so doubtless we can leave that in your capable hands. I am more concerned with the actual taking of the ship, not merely making a hash of its leavings."

Captain Hume glared at him. "You have a damned queer method of offering an alliance, don't you? Unless – no, wait, I believe I have heard of you after all. The notorious Jones sisters, who run a finishing school for delicate young ladies rather than an actual ship of the line. No wonder you don't have the stomach for the work it takes. What happened to your brother, then? Did he prick his finger on a spinning wheel and die?"

Killian took an enraged step, as one of his sailors caught his arm and the _Scarborough's_ men made a slight, convulsive movement for their swords. After a very tense moment, he was backed down, though with a look at Hume that wanted very much to lay him out flat on the beach alongside his captive. "Apologies," he said, with frozen courtesy. "Clearly you do know much more of the Indies than I, and I should be wise to take your advice. We'll leave you to be getting on with it, but I'll return in the morning to talk terms of our alliance. Good day, Captain."

"Good day." Captain Hume doffed his hat with ostentatious courtesy, still grinning. Killian ached to punch him directly in the teeth, but as this would start the inter-ship brawl that had only barely been avoided, managed to restrain. Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and strode back to the boat.

The afternoon was getting on by the time they made it back to Governor's Harbour, he was even more disgruntled, and decided that he might as well have some time to cool down before storming back aboard the _Imperator_ with a face like thunder. Thus he and his men repaired to a tavern overlooking the waterfront, he reminded himself that it was emergency measures, and ordered a tankard of ale, which helped considerably with his sour mood. After a second one, he was even feeling somewhat more restored, when he caught sight of a panting, tousled young boy shouldering through the patrons, clearly in frantic search of someone. Upon spotting Killian in his captain's coat, he detoured over. "Sir? Are you Captain Hume, sir, of the _Scarborough_?"

"Aye," Killian said, not missing a beat. "Do you have a message for me?"

"This." The boy held out a folded letter, squashed and damp. "The packet boat said it was massively important, sir. You'll let them know I delivered it?"

"Aye," Killian said again, digging out a sixpence and tossing it into the urchin's grateful, grubby paws. "Get on with you, then."

Once the boy had scampered away, he broke the seal, recognizing it as a scribbled dispatch from the observation post on Grand Bahama, about a hundred and twenty miles north of Nassau – not much more than the world's unluckiest Englishman perched on a rock in the sea, in order to keep an eye on Spanish activities around Florida and make sure they didn't get any ideas about proceeding up the coast to harass the British American colonies. Why they would be sending a deadly urgent message was confusing, and somewhat concerning. What could have possibly happened that the Royal Navy would need to know about and make plans to –

What.

What the –

Bloody, bloody _hell._


	10. X

**-X-**

Emma Swan had now been locked in the second-best cabin aboard a Royal Navy ship for almost three days straight, and her patience to endure such a circumstance, while it was of course preferable to the pungent company of chickens and goats in the brig, was spent. It was a pleasant enough captivity – meals appeared at regular intervals, the chamber pot taken away and emptied (making her wonder which unfortunate crewman had drawn the short straw to play lady's maid to the pirate captain) and in these considerations, she could clearly see Killian Jones' influence. He had evidently left standing orders that she was to be treated decently, which she reminded herself was likely just a ploy to get her to cooperate with navigation, but she had to admit both that he could clearly do that himself very well, and that this was far from the route that most Royal Navy captains would choose to secure a prisoner's compliance. He should be having her beaten, or left open to the ever-present threat facing a lone woman on a ship full of men, or starved, or. . . try as she might, she couldn't spin this as a purely political maneuver. It might not be one. The younger Jones was clearly of the idealistic and ardent bent, unlike his reserved, shrewd elder brother, and may still just be clinging to exalted notions of honor and chivalry, determined to prove that he knew how to treat a lady, even a criminal one. In which case, it was almost sad that the world would, in turn, have to take that from him as well.

Nonetheless, Emma had not survived so long by prizing the personal considerations of Navy officers above her own, and while the _Imperator_ was docked at Governor's Harbour, she was once more reeling through a catalogue of potential escape plans. She could disguise herself and sneak ashore, but she'd have to choose a new alibi, seeing as Killian knew about Emma White, and she could not present herself under her real name; the folk of Eleuthera feared and hated pirates and would lynch her right there on the street without putting anyone to the bother of a proper trial. Any of the crew catching sight of her at an inopportune moment would likewise blow a ruse to hell, and as she had no money, she'd have to steal something in hopes it could get her aboard another ship. She certainly did not want to walk off her comparatively comfortable and safe situation aboard the _Imperator_ just to be snapped up by the fucking _Scarborough._ They had all heard quite enough stories to know that Captain Hume decidedly did not share the Jones brothers' lofty convictions on the proper and merited treatment of pirates and traitors.

Furthermore, there was the problem of what she would do when she arrived back on Nassau. If Felix had already seized command of the _Blackbird,_ her reappearance would be massively inconvenient to say the least, and it would be far easier to enlist some catspaw to just quietly slit her throat, rather than risk his coup disintegrating with embarrassing haste. Even if she did avoid that, she wasn't likely to be taken on by another crew, and she was not going to condescend to being some lowly rank-and-file sea rat, not after captaining her own ship. She could, of course, attempt to re-depose Felix, but that would take more backup than just Will, Merida, and a half-dead Macintosh. With Flint so obsessed with his Spanish treasure project, he wasn't liable to be any help at all, and nobody else was a natural alliance. Having the most feared captain on New Providence as her pirate mentor very often proved to be more of a hindrance than a help.

Frustrated, Emma sat down with a huff, realizing that her options were complete shit, and the best (or rather, least risky) one was staying here for the time being – which was a commentary on the dismal state of affairs, if a pirate preferred the continuing hospitality of the Navy to literally anything else. They had to be going somewhere else before Antigua, somewhere more favorable for her to jump ship. The danger of doing it on Eleuthera was too great, and plainly she was not about to be mistreated in the meantime (at least until they hanged her, she thought wryly). She could still return to her original plan: seduce Killian and get with his child. It was not something she wanted to do for any number of reasons, but if it _was_ the only way. . .

Emma shook her head, telling herself to keep thinking. She was clever and resourceful, there had to be something. Whoever the prior inhabitant of this cabin had been, they appeared to have been quite a pack-rat, leaving stacks of old papers and rubbish everywhere and negligently expecting the _Imperator's_ crew to clean up after them, and she felt a dim prick of memory that they had been bringing some important eminence or another to the islands. It was not entirely out of the question that he had forgotten some interesting document among the muddle, something she could convert into a useful blackmail item, and since Killian still did not look to be returning, this gave her a conveniently uninterrupted interlude to search. She pulled open the desk drawer, hauled out the piles, and began to dig.

A short inspection revealed, to her delight, that said prior inhabitant had not been merely any mid-ranking bureaucrat, but Lord Robert Gold himself, the new Governor of the Leeward Islands and one of the most powerful English officials in the Caribbean. There was also a touch of apprehension, as he had earned a fearsome reputation as a cutthroat strategist and behind-the-scenes manipulator during the war, and Westminster sending him here was a clear message that they wanted him to deal with the pirates as ruthlessly as he had dealt with the Spanish. Suspected Jacobites like Lord Archibald Hamilton should be alarmed as well. It was plain that the British Crown, after either ignoring or underestimating the different weeds of rebellion cropping up in the Indies, and not having the time or the resources to deal with it beforehand anyway, was finally beginning to regard it as a legitimate and major threat, and thus the _Imperator_ might only be the first of the re-conquering vanguard.

Surely, then, Gold must be a close ally of the brothers Jones, yet that did not quite jibe with what Liam had said to Emma back in Jamaica. _Though it is true that certain parties among the high command have taken our shipboard policies as a threat to the very fabric of Great Britain, and spent rather a ludicrous deal of time and effort on finding a way to discredit us._ What if Gold was one of those witch hunters? It would fit with his personality, to be sure, and the Admiralty's continuing suspicion of anyone who did not toe their brutal line. And someone had, after all, hired Emma to take on the _Imperator_ and make sure its officers died heroically in the line of duty, fighting the pirate scourge. Someone who had taken particular care to make both the patron and the payment look as if it came from the Spanish.

A faint, abrupt chill went down Emma's back. She got up and dug out a second sheaf of papers, these looking like accounts and bills, and went through the crabbed, intricate handwriting word by word. Gold of course was not nearly such a trumpeting fool as to write "traitorous bribe money to pirate captain in re murder of captain and lieutenant I dislike" on the balance line of his cheque book, but while he was generally scrupulous about noting the origins of his other sums (though "letters and goods from London" was clearly a code that could mean just about anything) there was a particular deduction for one hundred pieces of eight that had no recorded provenance. And one hundred pieces of eight just happened to be what the informant in the Turks had paid Emma at their meeting.

A second, deeper chill passed over her. It was far from damning evidence, of course; Gold could be paying that amount to anyone. But it was still very, very strange. Spanish trade laws meant that there was no legal commerce between Spanish and English islands in the Indies, and using Spanish currency – the most common method of exchange in the Caribbean, due to its availability – to pay a few small-scale transactions was quite a different kettle of fish from an official requisitioning this much of it. Jealous of the prevalence of Spanish money, British currency traders and colonial authorities undercut it on exchange rates as much as possible. Aye, it was easier to transport large amounts in Spanish currency, due to their denominations; eight reales equaled one silver dollar (or piece of eight, hence the name) and sixteen silver dollars equaled one golden doubloon. Whereas it was two hundred and forty pence to the pound (twelve pence a shilling, twenty shillings the pound) and that obviously was more inconvenient to haul around. England had only recently started minting silver crowns, worth a quarter of a pound, but they had not entered wide circulation, and the golden guinea was too valuable to be used in street commerce. So at least theoretically, Gold could have just found himself in possession of an innocuous sum that he planned to change back to sterling later. But even if so, due to the aforesaid prejudice against Spanish money, not to mention the delicacy of an English governor having to explain where he had come by a large quantity of the enemy's Catholic silver, he would be ripped off on the return conversion. To make a long story short, there was absolutely no legitimate or easily explained reason for Gold to have a payment of one hundred pieces of eight, when she had received that exact amount, unless for something very strange indeed.

The question, then, was why he would leave this where it could be discovered. True, the transaction was unlabeled and deep in the ledger, so it wasn't as if the odds were good, but seeing as this was a hanging offense, one would presumably want to be very careful about where one dropped it. But if she _was_ continuing down this road where Gold had staged a "Spanish agent" to hire her to destroy the _Imperator,_ thus removing the Jones brothers and pinning the blame on England's enemies, didn't that also make sense? He'd certainly not want these records anywhere near his own office, if for any reason a lone honest government official could be located long enough to audit his finances. And just so happening to plant records of mysterious arrangements with the Spaniards aboard the very vessel that he wanted taken down. . . so even if the Jones brothers managed to survive Emma's attentions and make it back to Antigua, there was still a backup plan in place to frame them. Liam and Killian would, after all, have a hard time explaining the presence of these documents, or proving that they had nothing to do with them. So if her theory was true, Gold had deliberately left behind evidence of his own crime in order to convict them of it. Bloody hell. That was _diabolical._

Emma sat back, half wishing she hadn't looked after all. Clearly, there was no way to connect Gold concretely to whatever the fuck was happening here, and a pirate captain accusing the Governor of the Leeward Islands of treason would be the biggest joke of the century. Indicting him would also mean indicting herself, as she had taken his money and accepted the assignment. The Admiralty, much as they might be suspicious of the Joneses, surely would not appreciate one of their ships being sunk as a result of treacherous plotting from within – even in this dazzlingly and singularly corrupt place, that was beyond the pale. Furthermore, why choose Emma for the job? Was it merely the fact of knowing that she was hungry for a major prize, and willing to take the risk of attacking the Navy, whereas an older and more established captain might not? That alone might explain it, but was there some deeper connecting thread, another dimension to the mystery? Killian had mentioned that a woman named Regina Mills wanted Emma dead, that this was likewise why he and his brother had been set on her trail. _Scratch my back, I'll scratch yours?_ Regina was from Antigua, she could well know the governor. If she and Gold had some kind of secret agreement – Regina got Emma killed, Gold got the Jones brothers killed – and they tidily used the other to do it, leaving no suspects, no witnesses, no questions, nothing but the perfect crime –

"Mistress?"

Absorbed as she was in these alarming scenarios, Emma jumped a foot at the sound of the voice, nearly knocking over her chair as she whirled around, half expecting it to be one of these wrathful specters in the flesh. It was not. It was Killian Jones, looking rumpled and hot and annoyed, holding some crumpled letter in his fist, which he shoved into his pocket when he saw her looking. His eyes took in the scene – her standing in the middle of a chaotic pile of papers, clearly snooping for all her life was worth – and she saw him unable to decide whether to be angry or amused. After all, what could he expect, putting her in here? After a moment, he said with exaggerated courtesy, "Finding some interesting reading material, madam? It's all Gold's old rubbish, so I don't think – "

"Actually," Emma said. "I rather think I might have."

Killian frowned at the tone in her voice. "What? Where?"

Emma hesitated, wondering if she should disclose this to him either honestly or in full. But it did provide a potential opportunity for him to prize keeping her alive, an assistant in uncovering a conspiracy by a man he and Liam plainly had no love for, and if they were ultimately both victims in this plot, they could do more together than apart. She led him to the desk, pulled out the suspect records, and explained as concisely as she could.

By the time she had finished, Killian's faint frown had deepened into a full-blown death glare. It was clear that he had no trouble believing the worst of Gold and possibly Regina as well, shaking his head furiously and swearing under his breath, but even his hot-tempered nature had to recognize that this was not enough to build a formal accusation on. "You're sure of this? There's no other potential explanation?"

"Of course there is," Emma said. "It _could_ be for anything. But as I said, it's very, very unusual."

He gave her a look, both incredulous and admiring. "You know a great deal of this, don't you?"

"I'm good with money," Emma said automatically, thinking of how she had dismantled Liam's story of how he had gotten the brothers out of slavery, back in the brig. This was not necessarily a distinguishing feature of pirates or pirate captains, as most of them were either illiterate or only concerned with amounts of money insofar as how much of it they had stolen or how much their share was to be spent on whores and drink. But living under Leopold White's roof and observing his merchant business, then her few years of managing her husband's accounts, had given her an acumen. Oddly, and perhaps for the first time, that gave her a moment of missing Walsh. He had been a dolt who generally drank for supper and snored by the fire as she did all the chores, that being the chief reason he had married her, but at least he hadn't been a cruel one. From time to time he'd even take an interest in playing the father to Henry, talking about teaching him the woodworking trade so he could take over the furniture shop, and even if marital relations were infrequent and unsatisfying, he hadn't forced or hurt her. It was nice to sleep with someone else in the bed, to have a partner, even as one as oblivious and unhelpful as him. Sometimes she'd timidly try to interest him, to get him to come to her with love and care, to make the most of being bound to each other for all their earthly days, but it never worked. When the bloody monkey chopped his own leg off and bled to death, she felt both crushed and liberated. If he never had, she might still be back there, watching each day pass unchanging. Not a pirate, no, but living a far more empty and pointless existence, just as much an inexorable march to the grave.

"Mistress?" Killian touched her elbow. "Did I say something?"

Emma shook herself, chasing away the memories. "I – no, I was just thinking. It's nothing. So if this _is_ the case, what on earth are we supposed to do about it?"

"I've no notion." Killian's lips went thin. "And there couldn't be a bloody worse time for it. The entire Caribbean is about to explode, and I have no way of knowing what will come of – "

"What?" Emma interrupted. "How?"

He eyed her for a long moment, clearly weighing up the risks of divulging the information, before apparently having to accept that she had just shared something just as delicate and dangerous with him. "The fleet," he said. "The Spanish treasure fleet leaving from Havana. They were caught in the hurricane. Eleven of the twelve ships wrecked or sank just off the coast of Florida, in no more than thirty feet of water, and more than a thousand sailors drowned. Over seven million dollars in gold, silver, gems, and other precious items is now lying on the sea floor, in full and easy reach of a good diver. Completely unguarded."

The air almost crackled with the force of these words, as if in the wake of a lightning strike. Emma stared at him, almost tempted to ask him to repeat it in case she hadn't heard right. The impact of this could not be overstated. This was several years' worth of Spanish riches spilled capriciously into the sea, free to any taker who could get there ahead of the Spanish salvage efforts, which were certain to be just as vigorous. Flint had devised an entire wild plan to capture the _Urca,_ just one ship – now all he needed to do was locate the hulks, shoot whatever few soldiers remained alive to guard them, find some strong swimmers and a diving bell, and beat off with sticks every other gentleman of fortune fighting for his bite of the golden pie. The news would spread across the Caribbean like wildfire. Forget any other previous intrigues or assignments; everyone would be rushing to the same spot of a few square miles. It could be an all-out war – and left Killian, indeed, with an impossible decision. Emma could see that at once.

On the one hand, if he sailed the _Imperator,_ one lone Navy vessel, into the middle of literally dozens of pirate ships, even they would forget their treasure hunting long enough to team up and destroy him. He would have to take the _Scarborough_ in consort, at the very least, and even then, it would be dangerous odds; losing both those ships would almost cripple the Navy's effective power in the region. If he did not go, however, he allowed the pirates to acquire almost limitless wealth, make it look as if England was tacitly permitting such plunder and brigandry (certain to further delight the Spaniards, already reeling from this disaster) and good as announced to the New Providence rogues that the Navy was too frightened to challenge them head-on. Either way, Faustian bargain did not begin to describe it.

"Christ," Emma said at last. "Have you told that bastard Hume yet?"

Killian's lips went tighter. "No," he said. Plainly his first impression of his counterpart had been the same as much of the pirates'. "He's too busy torturing some poor bugger down the beach, probably best to leave him to his miserable – "

"Torturing who?"

"Someone off Flint's crew, they caught him when he went overboard. Name of Bones, apparently, though I'm not sure that's – what?"

"Bones?" Emma repeated. "Billy Bones? Tall, blonde?"

"Indeed." Killian looked at her oddly. "Do you know him?"

"Aye. He was – he was the one who spared my life, when the _Walrus_ captured the ship I was traveling on back to England. Decided they'd hold me for ransom, and made sure I was safe while they tried to get it. When they couldn't, and I chose to turn pirate, he continued to protect me while Flint was giving me the crash course. I owe him quite a bit. And Flint said – Flint said he went overboard, when we were talking. If something happened to him – "

"Something clearly did." Killian looked both confused and wary. "It's true that nobody deserves to have Hume sicced on them like a mad dog, but if you're suggesting – "

"Look." Emma turned back to him. "I know you don't trust me. I don't trust you very much either. But both of us are in far over our heads, and the mire is only getting deeper. As you said, the entire Caribbean is about to explode. I have an idea, though you're not going to like it. But it bloody well may be the only way either of us gets out of this, and best to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. It will get some of what you want, and some of what I want. Not entirely so in either case, but well, that's the art of the compromise. Now, are you listening or not?"

Killian stared back at her, frozen as a deer in firelight. It was clear that every one of his higher faculties was screaming at him to get out of this mess some other way, any other way – while realizing, as she had said, that there did not appear to be one. Both of them were aware of standing at the edge of a chasm, the point of no return, that if they went forward from here, there was no turning back. They would have to trust each other completely, to forget about the traditional hatred of pirate and Navy, and play a game that could well end with both of them dead in a dozen different ways. Yet not playing it would only kill them faster. They had no other friends, and enemies to every side. The hurricane may have passed, but a far darker and stronger storm was coming, and this one, no matter what, they could not outsail.

"Aye," Killian said at last, barely more than a whisper. "I'm listening."

* * *

The first step had to be disguise. They unmoored the _Imperator_ and aimed her south, along the endless miles of narrow beaches; they couldn't take her north and risk tipping off the _Scarborough_ that something was afoot. Once they reached a suitably secluded spot along the bluffs, they dropped anchor again and Killian went to inform the crew of the essential outlines of the plan. It was not felt necessary that they know everything, especially as this was skating perilously close to treason as it was, and Killian was well aware that some of them might take it actually as such. Booth in bloody particular, he'd have to keep an eagle's eye on. Obviously he did not want to shoot the man and toss him in a shallow grave, but nor was he going to sail back to Antigua and let the bastard sing like a canary about this to Gold. His status was what one might euphemistically term "under evaluation."

The crew at large, however, proved more receptive to the plan than Killian had dared to hope for. It was a bloody good thing that Liam wasn't here, though Killian hated himself for thinking that, as it probably would kill him on the spot, and for certain he would never agree to it. But Liam was presently ashore in the care of Flatulent Bumwad, he, Killian, was captain, and it was his decision to make. There were certainly a few men who gave him cold fish-eyes, but the rest cheered, went below to fetch the barrels of tar and pitch and stain, and once the _Imperator_ had been hauled onto the beach, industriously set to painting her sides black, obscuring any and all identifying markings. Someone got a chisel and took her name off the stern, and someone else ran down the Union Jack from its halyard. Then they hoisted a plain black flag instead, and a red streamer made from an old soldier's coat.

By this and other expedients, working well into the night, they managed to get the _Imperator_ transformed from a Royal Navy third-rater into a menacing black-hulled, heavily gunned pirate ship. Such an obviously powerful and unidentified vessel would still attract attention, but since pirates from near and far would be swarming on the Spanish wrecks, it would not be outstandingly unusual to see ones you had never met before. There were certainly notorious pirate lords who operated further north in the Americas – Black Sam Bellamy and Edward Teach being some of the best known – so this would just be taken for another. And that meant, of course, that nor could its captain look anything like a Royal Navy lieutenant, or even like a Royal Navy lieutenant playing dress-up in the theater. Expert advice was called for.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Killian said, for something like the fourth time, twisting in an attempt to see what Emma was doing with the shears; she firmly pushed his head straight again. "I might end up looking like a half-plucked chicken if you're not – "

"I'm being careful." She sounded amused, resuming her industrious snipping, as fine dark chunks of hair fell on the floor. He tried not to think that he rather liked the sensation of her fingers in it, gently stroking and combing. "You could do with a trim anyway. You certainly can't have it tied back with a ribbon, that would be a dead giveaway."

Killian bit his tongue, waiting until she had finished, then held up the small looking glass. He had to admit, the effect was rather startling. Without his long ponytail and heavy fringe, with the bold, short cut to show his face, he looked older, darker, sharper, far less like a subordinate and more like someone genuinely giving the orders and expecting them to be followed. They didn't have any suitable garments for a pirate captain, though he had ordered the crew to junk their uniforms and wear whatever bits of their own clothing they had, the better to look like a motley company, but Emma told him to leave that to her. While some of the men went to rescue Billy, she would nip off on her own errand. It certainly occurred to Killian that she could use this interlude to try to escape and thus leave him in the lurch, but as there was still nowhere for her to go, and since they _were_ supposed to be trusting each other, he supposed he should leave her to it. His credulity, however, did not extend quite that far. "I'm coming with you."

Emma gave him a wry look, clearly able to guess exactly what he had been thinking, and he flushed. He was used to this with Liam, as they knew each other's minds so well that they rarely had to discuss things, but Liam was his other half, his true love, not a – not a _pirate._ To discover that he had fallen into it with her in the course of a few days of highly fraught acquaintance. . . well, never mind that. There would time for worrying about it and much more in the highly unlikely event that they actually survived what they were about to bloody do.

Once he had taken off as much of his Navy uniform as he could, they went back up to the deck, met the small strike party he had chosen to rescue Bones – a lightning raid, kerchiefs tied over their faces, in and out to cut the bonds, haul the man into the launch, and skedaddle – and made sure they were clear on their orders. Bones was not to be harmed further, as indeed he was their key to blackmailing Flint and getting Emma's half of the bargain, but nor was he, obviously, to know that he was on a Naval vessel. He was to be told that he was aboard the – aboard the – Killian struggled to think of a good name, until he looked up at the makeshift red streamer being hoisted alongside their new flag, and said with great authority, "The _Jolie Rouge._ "

"Aye, and then under whose command?"

He looked around once more, until his eye fell on the boat hook – the pole with a sharp curved piece of metal attached, used for disentangling the ship from any fouling, pulling in, or casting off, among other uses. "Hook," he said. "Captain Hook."

The men promised they could remember that; indeed, he was beginning to wonder just how deeply he could play this pirate masquerade without them deciding that they did not want to go back, that they were quite content to embrace it whole-heartedly. It was them he was worried about, of course. Make sure that they remembered this was just a pretense for catching actual pirates, and they were still Navy men – though they could not of course, act like it where someone might see and figure it out. Coerce Flint with the presence of Bones, thus impel him to assist Emma in regaining command of the _Blackbird,_ and let her go as secretly as possible, in exchange for her help in getting them to the wreck site undetected and capturing several of the looters. That was the arrangement. She might still be caught by some other patrol, but it wouldn't be on his conscience, and it would be impossible to prove he had anything to do with her escape. If the thought of that fat bastard Hume getting his fucking hands on her made Killian see red, made him think that he would sink the _Scarborough_ himself sooner than see it happen, he just had to push that away. No time for it. It would fade. Not now.

The rescue party departed in the launch, and Killian and Emma took the longboat, rowing up the coast, dragging it stealthily onto the dark beach, and tramping up the sandy bluffs and into the outskirts of Governor's Harbour. There was a small tailor's shop at the end of the street, shut and locked for the night, and Emma knelt, Killian nervously keeping watch, to expertly pick it open. They crept into the darkened premises, rustled among the trunks of fabric and half-finished clothes, and finally came up with a black velvet cuffed and collared cavalier's coat, a white shirt, a pair of leather breeches, and riding boots more flamboyant than Killian's plain Navy-issued ones, with vivid red embroidery in the slouched tops. After a quick check to be sure it would more or less fit him, they stole the lot, darted out of the shop before they woke the tailor in his cramped room above, and hastened back to where they had left the boat. Half an hour of exerted rowing later, they were once more aboard the _Imperator,_ as Killian went into his cabin, shed the last of his Navy clothes, and changed. Once he buckled his sword around his waist, fashioned an impromptu bandolier of a leather strap and slung a pair of pistols in it, he opened the door to display the result to Emma, and was deeply gratified by her reaction. "Almost there," she said, after a moment too long of staring on both their parts. "Hold on."

With that, she dug a small gadrooned bronze pot out of her pocket and offered it to him. When opened, it proved to be a dark substance called kohl, which pirates wore to reduce glare off the water, and Killian carefully lined both eyes with it, instantly becoming much too fond of the effect. Then Emma took up the quill-sharpening knife from the desk and removed a small golden hoop off the necklace she was wearing. "Here," she said. "Give me your ear."

Killian eyed the knife mistrustfully. "To do what, exactly?"

"The earring." Emma held up the hoop. "It's a custom. That way when you get killed and your body washes ashore, there's a bit of decent gold on you to pay for a proper funeral."

Killian was not at all encouraged by the fact that she had said _"when_ you get killed" or by the reminder that he was entering, at least to all appearances, into a profession dangerous enough to require one to have funeral payment present at all times, but he was not about to bow out at the final step. He sat, gritted his teeth as Emma pierced his ear with the pen-knife, then carefully looped the golden hoop into place. "There," she said, standing back to admire her handiwork. "I think you're ready now, Captain Hook."

A strange, shocking thrill went through him. He should not have enjoyed it as much as he did to hear her say that, which was: almost beyond all reason. It had also occurred to him that a cocky swashbuckler would certainly know his way around a salty wench, and that while he might be a relative novice with women, even he could tell that she was not at all averse to the charms of a man in eyeliner with his shirt open halfway down his chest and a dark, smoldering (even if completely assumed) air of charisma. Her eyelashes fluttered as he took a step, and he heard her catch her breath as he reached out, hand skimming along her shoulder. He didn't know quite what he meant to do, whether to touch or just to test, though they were now close enough for him to see the faint freckles high on her cheek. Her hair had been tousled and teased half out of its thick braid, shining windswept chunks of sunflower yellow, and he was overcome with the need to touch it, to run his fingers through it, to loosen the knots and let it fall free down her back.

Neither of them were moving, the hitch audible in their shallow breathing as her tongue darted out to nervously lick her lips and succeeded instead in fixing his attention inescapably on them. What would she do, if he leaned in and kissed her right now? Stab him? Push him away? Break something over his head? He did not consider himself to be an indecently forward gentleman, and besides, he had rarely ever been properly kissed, it not being something whores did much aside from a few perfunctory clinches. Emma of course was not a whore, and he might do something foolish or dislikeable or incompetent. She would stop it somehow, surely. Or even more terrifyingly, she wouldn't.

They were very close now, feeling the warmth of each other's breath on their cheeks, noses almost touching, her hand floating up to rest on his chest; surely she could feel the hammering of his heart beneath her fingers. Her lips parted, head tilting back to look up at him, and he was on the very verge of doing something he was certain to regret when a loud knock on the cabin door startled them away from each other as if they had been burned. "Captain!"

Swearing under his breath, Killian did his best not to look as if he had just been fired out of one of the ship's cannons, although he still ejected outside with high speed and a wrathful aspect. He did so to find the rescue party just being hauled aboard, the prone form of Billy Bones hoisted in a blanket, muskets still smoking and a definite sense about them that if it was all the same to everyone else, they would prefer to get out of here now, thanks. Killian gave instant orders to make sail and get underway, and when Bones had been taken below, whirled on the leader of the expedition. "Christ. Tell me you didn't actually shoot any Navy men – though if you put a hole through Hume's hat or any other part of him, I didn't hear that from you."

"No, Captain, of course we didn't," the man replied, looking miffed that this was his commanding officer's opinion of his decision-making skills. "Had to provide some covering fire as we were getting the pirate off the beach, though, so if any of that caught by accident, well, there's nothing we can do. D'you think it's actually worth it? All this trickery?"

"We're all pirates now, don't forget." Killian flashed a grim smile. "You're dismissed. Good night, sailor."

"Good night, captain." The man saluted by habit and moved off, which led Killian to consider that passing as an actual pirate ship was going to take the hell of a lot more than a repainted hull, a black flag, and a new costume for him, as the innate instinct for order and discipline that he and Liam had so carefully instilled was (ironically) not easily broken. But once again the impassable question loomed up before him: how much could one _play_ pirate without _being_ pirate? It wasn't as if he was going to encourage his sailors to start back-talking and forgetting their responsibilities in the name of method acting, and as the only actual pirate he intended to have on board, for the minimum amount of time, was Billy Bones, perhaps appearances would be sufficient. Bones had seen him briefly back at his first meeting with Hume, but only for an instant, while he was delirious, and with Killian in his Navy clothes. It was doubtful he would connect that respectable personage to the intimidating figure of Hook, not when Killian barely recognized himself. The double takes the crew kept doing as they passed were a solid indication of that, though it was another habit he would have to break them of.

Restlessly, he pulled out his spyglass and scanned the dark coastline in search of the _Scarborough_ mounting vengeful pursuit on the unknown brigands who had thieved their valuable captive. Perhaps – pray God – they'd think it was just a clandestine strike team from Nassau. It wasn't _likely,_ but if Hume became of an unwarrantedly suspicious temperament, remarked on the sudden appearance of unfamiliar pirates coinciding with the sudden disappearance of the _Imperator. . ._

 _We're still loyal,_ Killian reminded himself. _We're doing this for the Navy. Hume can't properly accuse us of anything just because he doesn't know the details of our strategy._ Once everything was done, they'd scrape the tar off and repaint the old girl, put back on those Navy uniforms, go retrieve the healed Liam, and move on with their careers. Though if it was true what Emma thought, that Gold had paid for them to be killed or discredited as supposed Spanish agents. . . if it meant answering for shooting the guard on Jamaica, working in company with Hume, with watching Emma hang –

 _No. It doesn't matter. I cannot fail. I have to remember who I am._ Killian set his jaw grimly. No sign of the _Scarborough_ just yet, but that did not mean they were safe away. And if the ship should take them now, since it would likely mean he and his entire crew would be hanged for treason, or sold as slaves to the East India Company, as it made no sense to kill _all_ the criminals of the world when the Indiamen likewise always had a need for manpower –

Killian turned away, and went to see that the guns were loaded.

* * *

It was a tense, difficult, and cat-and-mouse night. The _Scarborough_ had been sighted two bells, or one hour, after they set sail, and while they were far enough behind, and in the dark, that they surely could not identify the remodeled _Imperator_ , it was plain that Captain Hume was hell-bent on reclaiming his captive and punishing the miscreants responsible. As such, Killian had had no choice but to let Emma take the helm, steering them into the secret channels and byways that she knew. Yet the _Scarborough_ still got close enough to try a volley of warning shots that whistled and splashed astern – but not that far astern – of their port quarter. She was used to the light, fleet _Blackbird,_ not the heavy square-rigged _Imperator,_ which did not handle as well and could not be taken into some of her best hideouts. Those, after all, had been chosen precisely because they were in places that the Navy would encounter considerable difficulties in following.

Emma could also see on the crew's faces that they were quite uncomfortable, as might be expected, with being on the run and another Navy ship opening fire on them, no matter what subterfuge they had agreed to in the name of the larger mission. They weren't the faceless pirate-killing monsters she and the rest of her kind imagined, but men, men being asked to betray at least in fairly convincing appearance the life and honorable service they had built for themselves under the Jones' command. Surely there was more than one of them thinking (correctly) that this insanity would never have happened under Liam, now that Killian had been beguiled by the comely wicked female who was supposed to be his captive ad instead within a week had assumed the post of his effective second-in-command. They could not hold this ruse for long. Either the men revolted and swung the pendulum back to their regular lives, or they liked the bite of the forbidden fruit just fine, and saw no reason to just _pretend_ to be pirates, when actually _doing_ it was so much more fun.

For this and other reasons, when they finally managed to lose the _Scarborough_ and the threat of an actual battle subsided, Emma thought it prudent to retire belowdecks, to the semi-private compartment strung up for Billy behind the forward bulkhead, away from the rest of the crew. He had been put in a hammock, had the worst of his wounds tended, and been given some fresh water and a biscuit, and thus was slightly more in command of his wits when she appeared in the dimness. "Em. . . Emma?"

"Aye, it's me." Emma smiled gently. "How are you feeling?"

Billy didn't answer, regarding her with a flat, distrustful gaze that plainly said he was not telling anything to anyone until he could work out just what in the devil was going on, how deep its snare ran, and who had an interest in each of its traps. After what he must have been through, she couldn't blame him, especially as he was not likely to be enthused by the information that part of their plan involved holding him, or at least whatever he might know, for ransom over Flint's head. After a long moment he said, "What the fuck are you doing here? What happened to the _Blackbird?"_

"I don't know," Emma said, honestly enough. "We were in difficulties with the Navy, she was wounded badly when I went overboard, and Captain. . . Captain Hook rescued me."

"You went overboard too?" Billy's face remarked that there seemed to be quite a lot of that sort of thing going around. "And who's Captain Hook? What ship is this? I've never heard of the man."

"It's called the _Jolie Rouge._ He's one of the pirate lords of the Americas, decided to come south in pursuit of an – an opportunity." The sinking of the Spanish treasure fleet was a tidbit best saved for later. "He ordered his men to save you from the _Scarborough,_ though. You do owe him your life."

"I'm grateful," Billy said, though his tone left it open to question. "Fucking queerest sorts of pirates I ever saw, though. Not a troublemaker or a firebrand among them, they run their work shifts without complaint, no quartermaster, not a clue when I asked the one who brought the water what their ship's articles were, or what good prizes their captain had taken?" His eyes remained fixed coldly on Emma. "They do have them, don't they?"

"Of course," she said. "The articles are the usual – one share for the crew, a share and a half for the captain, each man must keep his arms fit for battle, in the event of losing a limb during engagement he receives eight hundred pieces of eight, and meddling with a woman without her consent carries the penalty of death." In reality she was quoting from some of the _Blackbird's_ articles, but Billy wouldn't know that. "As for good prizes, I haven't been aboard that long, so they haven't told me. If there haven't been some in a while, that could explain why he's sought a change of scenery."

Billy absorbed this with a skeptical grunt. Emma disliked lying to him, but as the truth was plainly insuperable, she did not see there was much choice. The idea that they were actually Navy was mad enough that it likely wouldn't occur to him, especially since he _had_ presumably seen them take on Hume and his goons on his behalf, but nor did that mean he was inclined to accept her story at face value. Then he said abruptly, "Very well. If they're pirates, surely they wouldn't have an objection to putting in at Nassau? This Hook will have to make acquaintances if he plans to stay for any length of time, and if we came from Eleuthera, we're practically there already. Just a quick stopover. This is clearly a much more powerful ship than your average ten-gun sloop-of-war. Makes sense if we knew conclusively it was united to our cause, eh?"

Emma bit her tongue, as of course this was precisely the one thing they did not want to do. Killian did not want to put in at Nassau because he was not a pirate, Emma did not want him to put in at Nassau because she knew he was not a pirate, and Billy wanted him to put in at Nassau because he at least suspected that he was not a pirate, therefore leading any reasonable conclusion to the fact that the rest of Nassau would shortly realize he was not a pirate, and do something disagreeable accordingly. A pierced ear and a black flag would not survive for an instant under the scrutiny of the street, and then. . . God only knew what would happen if they realized a Navy captain was strolling there in plain sight, and his ship undefended, ripe for the taking. She would not even need to lift a finger to see the _Imperator_ torn apart board by board.

 _I should want that,_ Emma reminded herself. She could likely convince the other pirates that she had just been an unwilling or unwittingly duped captive; they at least knew her for one of their own, and were aware of Flint's protection. They would almost surely spare her. She wouldn't need to agree to any more of this terrible idea of trusting her life to anyone remotely associated with the Royal bloody Navy. Easy. So easy.

"Well?" Billy said, when she didn't answer. "Surely he knows what Nassau is?"

"Of course." Emma made herself smile. "But the errand we're on – if the street got wind of it, it'd be chaos, and we'd rather not, just now. You know how they are. And if they learned what happened to you – "

"They fucking well should," Billy said, close to a growl. "They need to learn what the Navy really is, what the Crown's so-called justice really is, not just their vague bogeyman ideas of it. They need to know exactly why we need to fight them to the last fucking breath, or die trying."

Emma winced. "Nobody denies that Hume is a ripe stinking sack of shite, but as I said, with everything as it is – "

"I'll make this clear," Billy said. "Put in at Nassau, or I'll know you're lying. And if so, no matter what's been between us before, friendship or alliance or whatever else, it's gone."

Emma hesitated for a long moment, then smiled again. "Of course," she said. "I'll go tell Hook. We should be there by the end of the day. You should get some rest."

Billy lowered his head back onto his makeshift pillow, but did not close his eyes. Did not turn away, or even blink, until she got up, climbed the ladder, and headed, with slow, dreading steps, to the captain's cabin.

* * *

"What?" Killian repeated. _"Nassau?"_

"I'm sorry." Emma was having trouble meeting his eyes. "I tried to talk him out of it. But after what happened with Hume, and in all likelihood Flint, he has no reason to trust anyone, and he's already noticed something's up. If we don't go, we confirm all his suspicions, and turn him into our sworn enemy."

Killian's fists clenched. "So he's trying this, then? When he's a prisoner on _my_ ship? There would be one bloody easy way to solve the problem. If I went down there right now and just killed him, do you think that would prove enough to him that we are who we say?"

Emma looked at him sharply, and he bit his tongue. "Perhaps it will be easier than you expect," she said quietly, "seeing as you already appear to be thinking like a pirate captain. Or a true Navy captain, as I suppose that would also be Hume's solution to the problem. But if we kill Billy, we lose all our leverage over Flint, and any hope of me getting the _Blackbird_ back. Not to mention, he's my friend, and I'm not about to turn a blind eye and let you do it."

"I – I didn't mean it." Killian wrestled belatedly to get control of himself, and not least with the fact that he very much had. "But why are we putting our eggs in Flint's basket, anyway? From what you've told me, and from what I heard back in London, he's a treacherous fucking bastard who would cut his own mother's throat if she interfered with his ambitions. You should stay. Here, perhaps. For the time being. We'll find another way to get your ship back that doesn't involve going through him."

Emma looked at him again, for a long moment, with an even sharper expression. "Stay?" she said at last. "On a Navy ship – that's what you still are, remember? I doubt King George is keen to let a woman and a pirate join up, and nor do I very much want to. You can't keep asking your crew to do this much longer, Killian. Either they'll mutiny and hand you over to the Admiralty themselves, or they'll see no point and purpose in ever going back."

"I. . . I know. Hence why I agreed to this fool plan in the first place, in order to catch pirates at the site of the Spanish wrecks, not to go drink and – and fornicate with them in Nassau! We're not going. Bones can be gagged and chained in the brig if he's inclined to complain. I don't _have_ to treat him so gently."

Still Emma kept looking at him, as if to be very sure that she was hearing these words from his mouth. Then she said, "If that's truly what you want – well, you _are_ captain. But whatever crew Billy joins will make you its one and only mark, and if he gets to spreading his story, you will be hunted to every corner of the world by pirate and Navy alike, adjudged a traitor to both. In comparison, one quick visit to Nassau. . ." She swallowed. "It's a risk, aye, but if you do exactly what I say and only that, we may be able to get through it and back on our way. Keep the men on the ship, anchor in the bay and take a boat ashore, I'll come with you. We'll pay a brief call on the tavern and Eleanor Guthrie if she's there, introduce you, you'll kiss hands and be charming, and then we'll leave. Eleanor likes me – well, for her – so she won't mind hearing that I have a new ally, someone else she can more or less count on to work with her. Appearances will be satisfied, Billy's bluff will be called, and we can still make it to the wrecks ahead of most of the looters – they only went down a few days ago, word can't have spread widely just yet. Indeed, giving it a slight delay can only work for us, so we don't turn up suspiciously soon as if we have an inside source of information. Not long, since as I said we can't do this more than a fortnight at most, but a bit. Do you understand?"

He paused, then nodded. He must be mad to trust her, continuing to put stock in her schemes that were tangling him ever deeper into her world, her control. He had already gone further than Liam ever would have, in far shorter a time, and the lies required to sustain his lies were already becoming rickety and ruinous. _God, how do I stop? And who do I bloody turn into, even if I do?_

"One other thing," Emma said. "Ships' articles are the codes of conduct each pirate ship sails under – a constitution, if you will, dictating each man's share in prize money, penalties for disobedience, compensation for disability, and other matters pertaining to shipboard discipline. I'll draft up a copy similar to those of the _Blackbird;_ make sure the crew knows what they are before they talk to Billy. As for prizes, which are the ships you've captured, we'll say that you recently took the – " She hesitated, thinking. "The _Duchess,_ out of Charlestown. It sank in the storm before the hurricane and left only one survivor, who's on my crew now, so nobody will know otherwise. Other than that, the pickings have been thin, hence why you came south. Aye?"

"Aye," Killian said. Something about her face made him ask, "Who was this survivor? Anyone who might be inclined to cause trouble, if he finds that I've been putting about that I captured his ship, when I didn't?"

"No," Emma said, after a slight hesitation of her own. "No one important."

He raised an eyebrow at that, but she glanced away again. _Bloody fucking pirates._ Who knew how many secrets lay between them, for all their apparent cooperation, or how widely their paths would end up diverging. He knew he was standing on the brink of an abyss, and more frighteningly, not whether he wanted to run away while he still could – or jump and throw himself headlong. To fall, and fall, and fall.

"Very well then," he said tightly. "To Nassau?"

Emma looked at him, then nodded. "Aye," she said. "To Nassau."


	11. XI

**-XI-**

Viewed from a distance, nestled among the low, sandy swells of New Providence Island like a pearl in an oyster, Nassau looked almost, and most deceptively, peaceful. The shadows of the evening sea were cobalt and amethyst, jade and turquoise, scattered in rich golden flecks by the last of the westering sun, which lapped a track up to the _Imperator's –_ no, not the _Imperator,_ Killian reminded himself, the _Jolie Rouge's –_ bow. The air was thick and hot and somnolent, the clouds garnet and onyx, the bay ahead populated with a dozen good-size pirate vessels, connected to the beach by a constant commerce of rowboats, skiffs, launches, and pirogues. For a moment, he felt a dangerous, heady temptation – to do what, he wasn't sure. Either to sail in there and open fire, sink most of the pirates' ragtag fleet at a blow and put a corresponding number of captains permanently out of business, or to come closer, go ashore, and find out just what was hidden among the maze of thatched huts, a few more prosperous half-timbered structures, and narrow, snaking alleys that linked the labyrinthine heart of the outlaw capital. He was rather disappointed that (at least from here) there were no Black Masses, baby sacrifices, ritual blood-drinking, or attempted summonings of Satan in evidence. If they were to go for this "scourge of the civilized world" business, they ought really to just go all the way.

Instead he turned, glancing at his guide to this exotic wonderland. "We're just to enter the bay, then?" It looked tranquil enough, but they were still a large, unfamiliar ship sailing in unannounced, and the fort atop the hill was well positioned to bombard them if someone raised the alarm.

"Aye," Emma said, after a quick examination. "Captain Hornigold holds the fort, but its guns aren't nearly enough to make a nuisance for us. Besides, he's not going to start shooting with no idea who he's shooting at. After all, we do look like a pirate vessel. If anyone hails us, I'll do the talking. Now remember. Do exactly as I say and only that, and we might get out of this."

This did absolutely nothing to assuage Killian's mounting misgivings, but he nodded crisply and barked at the crew to take her in, the deck creaking as the big three-master started the approach. Even blackened over and manned by sailors out of uniform and gone a bit scruffy round the edges, she still did not look like any of the others, and Killian remained tense as they glided in, prepared for boatloads of armed swashbucklers to blast up and apprehend them. If this went wrong, he could have inadvertently committed the Crown to a full invasion of the Bahamas by this time tomorrow. _I still think we should have just killed the bastard._

Nobody, however, appeared to block the way. They drew in, dropped anchor, and rode to a rocking halt on the glassy sunset sea. A scene more different from the howling madness of the hurricane a few nights ago could scarcely be envisioned, underscoring the wild and changeful nature of this place and its people, though it was possibly even more dangerous. After Killian gave strict instructions to the crew to stay aboard and chase off anyone who might try to weasel in (while not, for the love of God, revealing their true identity) he and Emma hoisted the longboat overboard, climbed in, and took hold of the oars. They sculled industriously across the harbor and into the shallow water by the swaying, half-rotted wooden quays, clearly left over from the first English attempt at colonizing the island fifty years ago. Funding civic improvement works was evidently not high on the pirates' list of proprietary budget concerns.

They tied up, Emma tossed a boy a silver piece in exchange for a promise to watch the boat, and stepped, for the first time – at least in Killian's case – onto the very soil, or rather sand, of the pirates' republic. He reminded himself that Captain Hook, while he might never have been to Nassau before, would not be swiveling around to gape like a halfwit, and so restrained, difficult as it was. Emma had decided to use their involuntary stopover to her advantage, to find out what the gossip was, if the _Blackbird_ had turned up with Captain Felix at the helm, what if anything the other pirates knew about the Spanish wrecks, and further such pertinent information, so they were making for the tavern she usually frequented. It was a sweaty climb up a steep alley teeming with barrels, crates, and other movable goods being offloaded, pigs, cows, and chickens (and their dung) underfoot everywhere, carousing groups of drunkards, and apparently the world's entire population of whores leaning from windows and giving potential customers an appreciative eyeful. Nobody was dueling to the death in the middle of the street (though someone had just been thrown headlong out a door and was spluttering in the mud) but everyone clanked with weapons – cutlasses, sabers, pistols, blunderbusses, even just a sock dagger or an eating knife. One plainly did not walk around unarmed after dark, or perhaps even by day.

Killian quickened his pace to keep up with Emma, who was striding through this den of debauchery without an apparent care in the world. He tried to adopt the same casual insouciance, sneering at whoever glanced in his direction, until Emma tugged his sleeve and hissed in his ear that he was overdoing it. Just do as she was, ignoring the noise and filth and fuss. As if this was no different from any back lane in the slightly rougher districts of London.

Killian did not actually have that much experience with London, his life having been mostly lived on one ship or another, but he took her point, strolling alongside her until they reached their destination, ducked below the lintel, and into a low, smoky public house, with more whores wandering around in case someone finished their drink and felt lonely. One of these honed in on Killian almost the instant he set foot inside, fluttering her eyelashes and nearly spilling out of her dirty corset. "I've never seen you before, love, have I? Sure and I would remember, darling, eh? Half price for your welcome to New Providence?"

Killian, alarmed both that she had instantly identified him as a newcomer and that she had taken his hand to guide it to the most generous aspect of her assets, while her other one went exploring lower, flailed in vain to free himself. Until Emma swooped in, slapped the trollop's paws away, and draped herself possessively around Killian's neck. "And _I'm_ sure you didn't mean to be practicing on my man, Arabella, did you?"

"Your – man?" The whore blinked, then pouted. "Cap'n Swan? We haven't seen you here for an age. Didn't recognize this pretty bit with you. The rest of your crew about? Will?"

"Afraid not." Emma smiled, a bit threateningly. "You'll have to find some other custom for the night. Off."

Disappointed, Arabella wafted away in a cloud of cheap scent, and Emma glanced at Killian, clearly trying not to laugh at the expression on his face. "I'm sure they have whores in the Americas, Captain, or indeed, literally anywhere. Don't look like a vicar walking into a brothel."

"I know what whores are," Killian muttered, cheeks hot. "That does not mean I am accustomed to fraternizing with them."

Emma gave him an odd look, as most Navy officers would feel quite as free as pirates in this department, but didn't ask, steering them to the corner. "Well," she said. "At any rate, the first rule of thumb is that you never tell them a bloody thing. They're all bribed by someone or other to inform for them, and if you'd rather that your plans stay your own, you'll keep your mouth shut. Had to teach my crew that." She shrugged. "I'll fetch some drinks. Stay here."

With that, she headed back into the crowd like a fish swimming upstream, vanishing before Killian could protest. Instead he leaned back, crossed his boots, and thus succeeded in not blowing his cover in his first few minutes alone, when someone appeared next to him: a man in a modish ivory coat, a grubby calico neckerchief, and scruffy dark sideburns, as well as an obnoxious little mustache. "Excuse me," he said. "You'd be the master of that new ship in the bay?"

He looked expectant for an answer, in which time Killian grimly considered just how fast news traveled in this bloody cesspit. Most likely they had barely departed the quays when someone came forward to enquire of the boy they'd left the boat with, pay or thump him to exact his compliance, and then either pass the intelligence up the chain of whores or just take it straight here for express delivery. He looked up coolly. "I am," he said, not very friendly, hoping the bastard would get the hint and clear out. "Can I help you?"

"Well it's just we've never seen your vessel before, and we'd want to know a thing or two, of course, Captain – ?"

"Hook." Killian cracked his knuckles. "Late of the Americas. Though I don't see why I'm obligated to answer myself to you, Mr. – ?"

"Rackham." The man smiled. "Jack Rackham, and if you've recently come to Nassau, you'll need a liaison. Cultural attaché, if you will. It so happens that I am in the market for gainful employment at the moment – well, myself and my charming partner, we're rather a package deal. If you're looking to make friends on the island, I can help with that." He twiddled a coin between trickster's fingers, as if about to make it disappear and then pull it out from behind Killian's ear. "You've clearly got a strong ship, and I do have an interest in being part of that. Shall I buy you a drink? Talking business is thirsty work."

Killian eyed him for a long moment, not sure whether to inform the obsequious skunk that he already had an expert guide and send him perfunctorily packing, or try to keep him talking. He obviously was not about to recruit an actual pirate onto his crew of disguised Navy sailors, though this one looked more snake-oil salesman than feared and hardened swashbuckler. Instead he said, "And I'm sure you're offering this service from the goodness of your heart? Why the fuck am I supposed to listen to the first weasel to pop his head out of the hole?"

A low, scornful laugh sounded from behind him, startling him, and he twisted his head to see a – yes, it was a woman, though he had to look twice to be sure, with long, tangled chestnut hair beneath a tattered, slouch-brimmed hat, a belted grey coat, and hands resting casually on the two knives sheathed at her waist. "Well," she said. "He's not a complete idiot, Jack. If you was countin' on it."

"I was not, of course." Rackham looked affronted. "Captain, allow me to present my partner, Miss Bonny, Anne Bonny. We both recently served on the _Ranger,_ but due to unfortunate circumstances, we are once more free agents. If you've heard of the _Ranger,_ you'll know we are just the sort of men – well, man and lady – to bountifully improve your pirating experience. That is to say – "

"I've heard of the _Ranger."_ Captained by that infamous mad bastard, Charles Vane. That explained a lot. If they'd pissed _him_ off, or otherwise found themselves at cross-purposes with their former crewmates, they would indeed be extremely eager to take up with a brazen, well-armed newcomer who had just sailed into the harbor without so much as a by-your-leave. To Anne he added, "Delighted to make your acquaintance, my lady, of course."

She eyed him malevolently from beneath the brim of her hat, then spat. Woman of few words, this one. Though from what he could tell, Rackham talked plenty for both of them. Bloody hell, where was Emma? Got shanked by some debtor while she was buying the drinks? Hiding behind a pillar to see how he did, if he could make a halfway convincing pirate without her constant presence? He was alarmed to feel himself warming to the role, and pleased by the look on Rackham's face, as evidently he _had_ planned on Captain Hook not knowing much of the intrigues and inner workings of Nassau, and needing a silver-tongued local ambassador to make connections among the hoi polloi. "I'm not in search of a new man at the moment," he said, "especially if it starts me off on the wrong foot with Vane. I'd be settled before I picked a fight."

"You are clearly a most prudent and praiseworthy gentleman, Captain, but as for that – "

"He's no captain," Anne interrupted. "Don't care what he's calling himself. He ain't."

There was a tenuous pause. Rackham shot an aghast look at his partner, and an apologetic one at Killian. "Anne," he hissed. "What the devil are you talking about? _Try_ not to destroy our chances at a new job before midnight, darling, do – "

"He's not." Anne regarded him flatly. "Preening popinjay all dressed up in frippery, playin' at it. I wanted to be fucked by a pretty boy, I'd climb into his bed. Not aboard his ship."

Rackham was wounded. "I thought I was your pretty boy."

Anne glared at him.

Killian shifted his weight, as if to put a hand on his sword. "Does your lovely and eloquent companion have some difficulty with me, Mr. Rackham?"

"Ah – no, Captain, not at all." Rackham made a move, and Anne made a face, that suggested he had just stepped on her foot. "She can be rather, well, plainspoken. We all have our various flaws of character, you'll just have to excuse that in her, but I do promise we'd be a – "

Killian put on his best arrogant scoff, which wasn't hard as he was still smarting from Anne's brutal assessment of him, and was surely about to come up with some devastatingly clever insult when, of course, Emma appeared with two tankards of ale in hand, set them down, and took in the scene. She raised both eyebrows at the sight of his visitors, then slid in at the table next to him. "Good evening. Am I missing something?"

"Captain Swan?" Rackham was thrown. "I had not heard you had a new. . . associate. Dashing fellow, to be sure. He has been voicing some concerns over Vane's ever-present potential to cock things up, so you can both be safely assured that at the moment, Charles is off doing who the fuck knows what with who the fuck knows who, and will not be an impediment to your hiring decision. I must say, you were not the new cohort I expected, but – "

"What did you do?" Emma sipped her beer and regarded Rackham coolly. "Think we would have to know that, wouldn't we?"

The pirate squirmed. "There was a small mishap with some black pearls, as Charles and I were attempting to do business in regards to Flint's recent command difficulties. These pearls may have represented a significant percentage of the _Ranger's_ investable assets, and I, well, I may have fallen into the ocean with this bag of pearls upon my person, thus resulting in their write-off. This, I hasten to assure you, was not my fault."

"Buying votes?" Emma guessed, picking up on some sensitive nuance of pirate politics that had, of course, eluded Killian. "Trying to help depose Flint, Vane's great rival? Well, that backfired splendidly. And then I'd want you around me why?"

"Well. . ." Rackham spread his hands. "In our defense, that was before we heard about the _Urca._ And – forgive me, Captain, but why would you be here, without your ship and without your men, in the company of some mysterious newcomer to Nassau, unless you were in rather the exact same pinch as Miss Bonny and myself? We all three of us appear to be pirates without a crew. Our dear friend Hook here offers one, or at least I would so assume. Is there something I am missing as to why he would not at least consider taking us on? My minor tragedy with the pearls aside, I am a loyal and reliable man and a fine sailor. So why not – "

"I told you," Anne Bonny said. "He's no captain."

"Anne, my darling, light of my life. Could you potentially – I don't know, go outside and keep watch, or take a little evening swim, or something at all, until this conversation is over?"

"And let you fuck yourself wifout me? I don't think so."

Rackham glared back at her significantly, before turning to Emma and Killian. "Well, she does have a point, it's getting late. And perhaps you do wish to get a better lay of the land before committing yourself to hasty decisions. I thoroughly understand and endorse such due diligence. Captain Swan, Captain Hook, good night. Anne, come." He got to his feet, offered them a flourishing bow, and wove his way to the door, Anne trailing several paces behind him with a final, burning look over her shoulder.

"That woman does not like me very much," Killian said, thinking it prudent to take a fortifying sip of his own drink. "Does she do that to everyone?"

Emma snorted. "What, is that the first time it's ever happened? Do women just fall into your arms otherwise?"

Killian was on the verge of flushing and protesting that they did not, thanks, mainly because he did not permit it. But then it occurred to him that this was assuredly Lieutenant Jones' answer, not Captain Hook's, and so he smiled at her, slow and suggestively. "Why, lass. Interested in a more personal inspection?"

Emma choked on her ale and hastily put it down, unable to disguise the color of her cheeks. "I was – just wondering," she said weakly, avoiding his gaze. "Anyway, everyone has definitely seen us by now, so let's drink up and see if Eleanor's still at the warehouse. Then we can get the blazes out of here."

Killian was disappointed, as he was starting to enjoy himself, reeking mire of conspiracy and treachery though this place was. He likewise momentarily considered mentioning that he shouldn't get into the drinking habit again, but there was no pirate alive who was a teetotaler, and he wasn't about to back down from the implicitly stated challenge of whether he was man enough to hold his liquor. He picked up his tankard, clanged it against hers, and drained it at a few long pulls.

As a result, he was rather light on his feet as they made their way to the door, though he mostly disguised it, and stepped into the dark street. They climbed toward the heart of the pirates' ill-gotten enterprise, the house of business where the Guthries, father and daughter, fenced all their stolen goods into merchandise that could be bought and sold at legitimate markets. Most Navy captains would give their eyeteeth to get this close, seeing the place for themselves, scouting out an attack, but Killian was concentrating on not tripping over his stolen boots. The ale served in the tavern was much stronger than the grog of the Navy, which was half rum and half water and mostly used to stop the water from going bad, and he had no tolerance, especially after his recent relapses. They came to a halt, and Emma said, "Wait here. I'm going to see if she's in."

Killian obediently did as ordered, glancing down surreptitiously to be sure that his feet weren't still moving. She disappeared up the steps, and for a few moments the night was almost peaceful, aside from the distant talk and laughter from the pleasure quarters. Then all at once, something – some _one –_ jerked him violently backward, he felt the kiss of lethally sharp steel at his throat, and a voice hissed hoarsely in his ear, "So who the fuck are you really, then? Eh?"

Bloody hell. He was not so pissed as to be unable to identify his attacker, especially as he had just met her a quarter-hour previously. Bonny had him in a vise-like grip, one hand in his hair to pull his head back, exposing his throat to the blade in her other hand, as he suddenly thought he would like to see Jack Rackham again after all and glanced around in vain hope of his fortuitous appearance. But Anne had evidently given her partner the slip in the name of conducting more aggressive negotiations, and she had yanked Killian back into a shadowed alley off the warehouse courtyard. "See what you say when you don't have no woman to talk for you," she growled. "Answer, or you won't be nearly so pretty in a minute."

Killian had not the slightest doubt that she meant it, but he was also not about to try to come up with a better backstory for Captain Hook while rather drunk and bereft of Emma, and this was just really bloody inconvenient. He twisted like an eel, slammed his elbow into Anne's stomach, and grabbed hold of her wrist, slapping the knife away from his throat and twisting her arm until her fingers were forced open and it clattered in the mud. She let go with a surprised whoof, falling hard, and he put a boot on the knife as she scrambled to retrieve it. "The vermin of Nassau could not be expected to know my legend," he snarled. "Next time you put steel to me, however, you won't live long enough to regret it. Now go, unless you want to know just why they call me Hook."

Anne's eyes shone in the darkness like a feral cat's. Then she spat again, whirled around, and vanished into the night in a blur, as he inhaled an unsteady breath; he wasn't quite sure what he would have done if that hadn't worked. He turned as well, and hastened back to where Emma had left him. Burst out of the alley, and –

For the second time in as many minutes, found himself at the mercy of a woman holding a knife to his throat, which was a vexing habit and not one he should get into. There was something familiar about this one, however, and he hissed, "Have you lost your bloody mind, Swan? It's me!"

"Oh." She took the knife away, but stopped short of apologizing. "The devil was I supposed to think? I came out, you were gone, and then someone runs out of a dark alley? You're lucky it was _me!_ Don't do that again!"

"It's not my fault." Killian rubbed resentfully at the thin red line now decorating his neck, thanks to the pair of them. "That Bonny woman appeared the instant you left and seemed inclined to belligerently disbelieve our story. I got rid of her, though, so unless you're of a mind to finish her work, we should – what?"

Emma had tensed as the warehouse door opened above, and several men emerged, evidently not ones she was pleased to see. Instead she turned around, seized Killian by the collar, and pulled him in. While he was still wondering if this was in fact a novel method of killing him, as he had no idea what else she could possibly be doing, she kissed him.

He was so stunned that for an instant, he just stood there like an utter idiot. Even as he was aware that she was doing it just so the men wouldn't pay any attention to them, he could not stop himself, in the next instant, from clawing back at her, one hand on the small of her back and the other in her hair. He half-lifted her as she wedged herself between his legs, and he discovered that tight leather trousers were rather uncomfortably restrictive in a certain state of, well, attention. Surely this was more than sufficient to make the men pass by, unless they intended to watch the show, but neither of them had stopped, her mouth open, hot and inviting, pulling his lower lip between her teeth as he swung her around, sat her on the low wall and she locked her legs around his waist, pulling him still closer. His hand slid beneath the thin cloth of her chemise, along the warm skin of her back, molding her into him like butter, as she gasped and gulped and tried to pull back, but didn't quite make it. They devoured each other a second time, as the men had already laughed, yelled a few earthy comments, and been on their way, Emma's hands fisting in Killian's hair as his mouth moved from hers down the slender column of her throat, nipping lightly at the hammering pulse. It was another several moments after that until, panting and flushed and shaken, well aware of the lightning crackling the air almost to the point of explosion between them, they dragged themselves apart.

"I. . ." Emma wiped her mouth. "I. . ."

Killian was still in no state to attempt any sort of speech, heaving fruitlessly for air and feeling lightheaded in a way that had nothing at all to do with inebriation. Or rather it did, but of her, not the ale. He didn't trust himself to look at her, afraid he would snap and do something he could not take back, and that had already been dangerous enough. Like there was nothing that could make him want to stop, to not want to do it again, to do more, with every fiber of his being. Like waking up and seeing the sun after living your life in darkness. Like coming home.

"So," he said after a moment, barely recognizing his own voice. "Are we going to see that Guthrie woman or not?"

"I – I don't think so." It seemed to take Emma just as long to formulate a coherent response. "Not if those buggers have been talking to her, I'd rather give her temper time to cool. No need to risk her lashing out. Come on, we've done our part. Let's get back to the ship."

Killian supposed this was a sensible proposition, and trailed after her, keeping a sharp eye (well, as much was possible) for any more marauding females springing out of the shadows. But while this was achieved without incident, they returned to the docks to find a second, and considerably sizeable, obstacle. Someone had stolen their boat.

"You've got to be bloody joking," Killian said, after a long moment of expertly assessing the situation. "Only what you can expect on an island of thieves, or is there some particularly sinister cabal of boat-pilfering fiends that we ran afoul of? Do you suppose whoever asked the boy who we were took it, or he did? Bloody wretched little – "

"We don't usually steal each other's shore vessels, no," Emma conceded. "Trade and occasionally borrow without permission, aye, but we still have to live together, and if you repeatedly stole from a fellow pirate – well, it's a small island, word would spread, you'd be blackballed. So – "

"Dishonest to the world, honest among each other?" Killian snorted a humorless laugh. "Is someone trying to keep us trapped here until they can find out who we really are, or something of the sort? I can't say I fancy a moonlight swim out to the _Im_ – the _Jolie Rouge,_ but unless we're going to steal someone else's, that appears to be our only – "

"No, it would be too dangerous." Emma stood frowning, until she finally said, "We'll have to go to Miranda's. I don't feel comfortable passing the night in town, and she'll give us a bed. Besides, there are a few things I want to make sure she knows. She's not as dangerous as the madding crowds, but she's not a woman who's easily fooled. If she works out that you aren't who you say. . ."

"Aye. Dangerous. That's rather the expected circumstance of things by now, isn't it? Who is this Miranda, anyway?"

"Her proper name is Mrs. Barlow," Emma said, after another of those brief pauses. "She's Captain Flint's common-law wife – they've lived as such ever since they arrived on Nassau some years ago, at any rate. She took me in when I was first brought here, she's a sort of moth – mentor to me. And while she supports Flint, she's no mindless little mouse to do as he says without question. If I let her know what's befallen me, she could also give him a few significant prods into helping me."

Killian was unsure if it was a terrible idea to approach Flint's woman, or an oddly genius one, depending on whether Miranda Barlow had ever read the Greek comedy _Lysistrata_ and felt inclined to put its political ideals into practical action. Not that such a stroke of good fortune seemed remotely likely at this point. "You really think she'll side with you, over her husband?"

"As I said, they're not _precisely_ married," Emma cautioned. "But she gave up quite a lot, to travel out here with him. I'm hoping she will refuse to let that include me."

This still sounded slim surety to Killian, but as bad and worse plans were all they presently possessed, and this one at least sounded likely to get them through the night without dying, he reluctantly gave his assent. Without a horse or a cart (though he felt that if they borrowed one, it would only be just recompense for the boat) it was a walk of close to an hour on a rutted, muddy track, through dense tropical undergrowth. Killian was sweating bloody everywhere, including in places he had not previously known it was possible to sweat, by the time they stepped out into a clearing, passed a neat garden thick with greenery, and approached a small house with a covered porch, built in the Caribbean style. Harpsichord music drifted out the open window, heavily draped with gauze as a defense against the pernicious, swarming insects. He let Emma take the lead as they drew closer, stepped onto the porch with a creak, and the music abruptly cut off. Before they could further alarm its maker, Emma called softly, "Miranda? It's me."

A long pause, then footsteps. A moment later the door opened, spilling oil-golden lamplight around the feet of a slender, middle-aged lady, kind-eyed and dignified, dressed in proper corset, shawl, and ruffled gown, her upswept brown hair pinned with a lace doily and a look as cordial and regal as if she had expected them for high tea in London. It was at once apparent to Killian that this woman did not belong here, had been ripped up root and branch from an old life and violently transplanted into alien soil, and he thought of the Whitehall rumors that Lieutenant James McGraw's shocking fall from grace had to do with an unfortunate affair of the heart, a passionate liaison with some nobleman's promiscuous wife. This, however, was not the character he would have pictured for such a Jezebel – much less able to guess why a flighty, shallow adulteress would consent to almost a decade in this reeking backwater of brigands and outlaws, rather than discarding Flint for a rich duke more ideally suited to provide for her comfort. He opened his mouth, remembered he was supposed to be letting Emma handle this, and shut it.

For her part, Miranda Barlow had observed both of them just as keenly in that brief moment. Whatever shock had flickered across her well-mannered visage now vanished, and she smiled instead. "Emma, my dear. I was not expecting you. I had not heard you had returned to Nassau."

"It was complicated," Emma said, displaying a talent for the completest of understatements to be made in five words or less. "We won't be long, but we could use a bed for the night. And there are a few things I was hoping to discuss with you."

Miranda must be used to receiving all-hours visits from pirates on mysterious errands, because she graciously admitted them, insisted on brewing them a cup of tea, and had them sit in the small kitchen. Killian detected no sign of a maid or serving boy; Miranda apparently did all the housework and gardening herself, another baffling and considerable stepdown for a former London society wife of means, and it was only with difficulty that he prevented himself from blurting out some impolitic question about her past. The only reason he knew the faintest thing about it, and whatever other shadowy rumors swirled around Flint's pirate origins, was because he of course was Navy, and he had no way of explaining it otherwise. Besides, that was a bit of information that might have to come out later in the negotiations, if either Flint or Miranda proved recalcitrant.

"So," Miranda said, dropping a lump of sugar tidily into her tea and swirling it with a small silver spoon. "Why don't you tell me what brought you here?"

With a glance at Killian warning him to continue to keep his mouth shut, Emma provided the abridged version of their misadventures to date, and made it sound as if coming to Nassau was something they had meant to do all along, to see how things stood and if there was any chance of reclaiming the _Blackbird_ prior to mounting a sustained assault on the Spanish wrecks. Miranda's lips went thin at the news that the whole lot of them had gone down, but it was hard to tell if this was in approval or apprehension; she was very good at keeping up the polite, reserved smile. "Well," she said at last. "That's very interesting. And your stake in this is, Mr. – ?"

"Hook, my lady." Killian couldn't be arsed to think of a good fake first name besides that of the other pirate captain involved here. "James Hook."

Miranda's brow furrowed, and he instantly knew that she had taken note of that automatic "my lady." Curse it, he should have called her "mum" or "Mrs. Barlow" or "mistress," rather than anything remotely hinting that he might know who she was. "Mr. James Hook," she repeated. "You've come from the Americas, then? Found yourself in company with Miss Swan?"

"Aye, ma'am." Probably too late this time, damn it, but at least he'd tried.

"I see," Miranda said, again without betraying any hint of what indeed that might be. For his part, _he_ was starting to see why this demure, proper lady with her ruffled sleeves and lace cap might just be a good match for Captain bloody Flint. "Well, it's getting late, and by the looks of you, you've had a hard day. There's a bed in the other room, if you'd like to take it. I can give you a bite of something to eat before you're on your way in the morning, to be sure. Good night."

Recognizing that this was an elegant maneuver to back him out of the conversation so she could speak with Emma privately, but unable to think of a way to object that would not make it clear he wanted to stay to eavesdrop, Killian agreed as gracefully as possible and withdrew. He then tried to listen through the door, but the wood was sturdy and thick, and he couldn't make out more than a distorted murmur. Furthermore, he _was_ bloody exhausted (events like those of the past few days tended to do that to you) and might not get a chance to sleep again for a while, unless of course someone cut his throat. So he began to undress, peeling off the trappings of Captain Hook, grateful to just be Killian Jones again for now. Then he padded across the floor and climbed into bed, sinking with a groan into the mattress and instantly experiencing a fervent desire to never stand up again in his life. He wondered how Liam was doing back on Eleuthera, if Failure Blunderbuss had done anything terrible to him yet, and was left with the uncomfortable thought that even if so, Liam would be far more disturbed to hear that his ship and his men and his little brother had ended up like this. Best that he just not know. . . but Killian could not expect the entire crew not to breathe a word of it once they got their captain back, especially if they thought he was entirely out of his tree for doing it in the first place. . .

Absorbed in his unquiet thoughts, Killian drifted into a murky sleep. He was just deep in a demented dream of sailing the _Imperator_ in circles, trying to escape from Lord Robert Gold who was dressed up as a large sparkling lizard, when the door scraped softly, jerking him awake. A dark shadow slipped in – not Gold whether in human or reptile format, thankfully – but Emma. She turned and shut the door, then glanced back, realized that there was only one bed and he was already in it, and froze.

Killian lay still, pretending to be asleep, even as his heart was pounding. As a gentleman, he should get out and offer it to her – but he did not really want to spend another night on hard floorboards, recent experiences being more than sufficient, and besides, he wasn't wearing any clothes. He could wrap a sheet around his midsection and make tender apologies, though he doubted she was the sort of woman to be fussed by a naked man. She _was_ a pirate captain, after all, and he was unable to repress a brief, jealous pang of curiosity as to just how many of them she had seen, and whether she was seeing one on a repeated basis at present. Not that it was his damn business or his concern, though he had already wondered if she had had some sort of casual arrangement with Billy Bones in the past. And to think they'd _rescued_ the bastard. Bloody hell.

After an uncomfortable moment, Emma reached for the door again, clearly either intending to ask Miranda if she could bunk with her, or sleep in the thick grass out back, both evidently preferable to spending a night with his hideous carcass. That provided an unwise sting to Killian's pride, and he rolled over, affecting to be just waking up. "Eh, lass? That you?"

Emma froze. She turned slowly, meeting his eyes with a small shock that they – or at least for bloody certain he – felt to the back of his spine. "I – didn't want to disturb you."

"I already was, at that." Killian sat up, feeling rather ashamed of his pettiness. _Just get your arse out and give her the bed, Jones._ "Though I'm sure sleeping alongside a Na – dangerous pirate is surely not a comfortable option for a woman of your – sensibilities."

"It's not that." Emma wet her lips, pulse visibly fluttering in her throat, and Killian wondered abruptly if he might have misread the situation. If she didn't want to share the bed not because she was repelled by him, but was afraid she might not be able to control herself. Though why such scruples would have suddenly occurred to her, he didn't know. To judge from the status of this place as the sin capital of the world, pirates were scarcely shy about taking whatever sort of pleasure they wanted, and Emma herself had displayed no difficulty in pretending such in order to discourage Arabella the handsy whore. Not even to mention what had passed between them on the ship, and the kiss in the Guthrie courtyard. And as it had become increasingly evident to Killian that neither of them would have at all minded a good hard shag up against the wall or whatever nearby flat surface presented itself, he was beginning to wonder if they should just get it out of the bloody way and move on with their lives. As well, this was not even a wall or a filthy brig, but a clean and comfortable bed in a well-kept house, on the last night before they sailed for the Spanish wrecks tomorrow and probably died. The time could be far worse. And while he was of course far from an experienced lothario, he at least felt confident that he could decently acquit himself. If it was only once, she couldn't really complain anyway.

He considered, aware of a faint voice in his head that might have been Liam's, shrieking at him not to be an idiot. But as the great part of his idiocy was already accomplished, and he wanted to know the answer to the question, he ignored it. Glancing up and deliberately meeting her eyes, he pulled back the sheet in a silent gesture of invitation.

Emma almost seemed to stop breathing. There were another few heartbeats when she didn't move, when Killian chastised himself for thinking that she would want a thing to do with him that did not involve getting away from him the instant she bloody could, that someone as practical as her would see any sense in a roll in the hay with him. Then at once, as if in a trance, she started to undress. Shucked her own clothes, slowly at first and then faster, as he stared spellbound at her slim, graceful figure in the silvery moonlight. As she stepped out of her breeches and drawers, kicked them off, and crossed, likewise naked as the day she came, the boards to the bed. Climbed up, took his face in her hands, and kissed him thoroughly.

Killian was utterly dazzled, hands sliding on her bare back as she straddled him, his fingers moving to comb through her glorious tumbled tousle of loosened hair, a gold far richer than any of the Spanish treasure scattered in the sea. They kept kissing and kissing as his hand continued its venture southward to cup one smooth, full breast, circling the nipple with his thumb as Emma sucked in a sharp breath. Then down her belly, to the slick wet sweetness between her thighs, almost aching with the need to be in her, to connect their missing pieces. He groaned as she pushed him flat against the pillows, climbed into his lap, and reached down with one hand to take the hardness of him, stroking and teasing as she slid forward and with a soft sound and shift that made both of them moan, urged him into her.

Killian saw double, trying to avoid yanking on her, letting her take the lead as her knees sprawled to either side of his hips and she slid forward, gliding him deeper inside. She found a sweet spot to settle him, sat back a moment, then started to move, riding him in short, then longer bursts, as he arched his back to thrust up into her. She moaned again, head tipping, mouth open, slipping and rubbing on one another as he hissed, swore, and jerked his hips faster, wanting to roll them over, pin her beneath him, fill her to the hilt. But he didn't; this entire thing was happening as she deemed it. Her hands braced on his chest, fingers spreading, catching at his nipple, as she bent over to bite at his throat, to kiss his jaw, breathing hard as she mounted him. They moved faster, then faster, until he thought they would strike sparks from the friction, ignite an inferno, and burn. Then she bucked, moaned again, and clenched ferociously hard around him, drawing him home until he felt himself coming undone and the silent, intense force of release broke over him like a crashing wave. He shoved up into her a final time as she whimpered, the echoes shuddering through their enjoined flesh, and slumped as if his back had been broken, shaking and panting. Emma rode out the clutches of her own climax above him, hair floating like a faerie spirit, no other sound in the jungle stillness but them and the nighttime shirr outside the window, hot wind in the palmettos and the wild moonlight on the floor. He wanted to sear that image, that memory, into the very fabric of his soul and never let it go.

After an eternal moment, Emma rolled off him, settling on the other side of the bed and pulling the sheet up around her waist. He didn't move, staring up at the dark ceiling, waiting for the world to stop spinning, so he could make some, any sense of this strange new configuration of it. There, it was done, she hadn't hated it, and he certainly hadn't. Now they could get the bloody hell on with their plan, without this hanging over them. It was a neat solution, a practical one. Even if he was still twanging from head to heel like a broken harpstring, as if he felt torn out of his other half, that was quite immaterial. And the payment for tonight was accepting that he had to watch it pass by and leave him. Just like everything. Just like everyone. He was deluding himself to think that she, that he, that any of them could stay.

Outside, the night went on. Emma did not turn around or speak, both of them lying at a careful distance to avoid touching again. Killian kept staring at the ceiling until his eyes went out of focus, and the dark waters of dreams once more closed over him.

And so, he slept.

* * *

Emma was the first to wake the next morning, blinking her eyes open as the rose-gold sun hit the wall and taking a moment to remember just why she felt so dreamy and heavy and satisfied. When it hit, she sat bolt upright, then realized there was hardly much she could do about it at this point and sank back down, feeling both pleased and mortified. After putting herself to such extra effort to _not_ seduce Killian, the irony was monumental that the reverse had happened last night – but if she was being honest with herself, she knew it had been a thoroughly mutual endeavor. Bloody fine, then. Once couldn't hurt, as long as they were both clear that that was all it was. At least they could now get on with things, not fancy-dance around pretending that they hadn't wanted this to happen, when they very clearly had. She was already in deep enough. Might as well have one pleasant memory of this godforsaken mess.

It was light, so it was more than time to reclaim their purloined boat and get the hell back to the ship before anything else unfortunate (in any sense of the word) should befall them. In her conversation with Miranda last night, she had gotten the sense at least that she would consider applying the due pressure to assist Emma in getting her ship back. But at the end, Miranda had tilted her head at the closed bedroom door and said quietly, "So who is he? Really?"

At that, Emma was left to consider that women as different as Anne Bonny and Miranda Barlow had both been perceptive enough to see through Killian's act in an instant, while the men were content to look no deeper. Well, Rackham clearly needed a new job badly enough that he might be willing to ignore a second head or a third leg on a potential employer, but still, nobody of a masculine persuasion had seriously questioned Hook's veracity. Of course it was the women who had learned by painful experience that what a man looked like did not matter, and rarely told the truth of him. And Emma herself had warned that Miranda was not one to be fooled.

Thus, she hesitated. Had been on the verge of repeating the fable that she had pawned off on Billy. But as she knew both that it was woven of very thin cloth, and that Miranda herself would know it was a lie, she demurred a final moment and then gave up the ghost. Admitted that he was a Royal Navy lieutenant, that he had saved her for some reason and now both of them might be in mortal danger from the creeping tentacles of a plot on Antigua, between Lord Robert Gold and this mysterious Regina Mills. It was that alone, Emma stoutly insisted, which had impelled their current cooperation. After it was over, they would go their separate ways and never see each other again.

Miranda looked very odd indeed at the revelation that Killian was Navy, as well she might. They were both aware that by all rights, he had no business working with, respecting, granting any quarter, or even being barely decent to Emma, that she should still be in the brig where he had first put her, and that doing this instead meant he had effectively deserted already. "So you still plan to carry on this charade?" Miranda said at last. "Both fooling yourselves that you can control or put a stop to it? If you think I'll ask James to back your return to captaincy on the _Blackbird,_ you had best be very sure of what else you have brought upon us. Upon yourself. And it's plain enough that neither of you wants to betray the other, at all. So will you make that a price you are also willing to pay?"

Emma opened and shut her mouth, confounded that she had no immediate answer. "It's just until we get to the wrecks," she said instead. "The _Blackbird_ and the _Walrus_ will almost certainly be there too, if either are in any fit state to sail. There will be some kind of distraction, and Billy and I will jump overboard and escape. The _Imperator_ will take a few other of the scavengers, nobody important. While that's going on, the two of us will make it to our side of the water and – arrange matters from there."

From the way Miranda looked at her with that calm, unrevealing brown gaze, Emma could tell that she did not think this was much of a plan at all, and indeed, saying it out loud seemed to reveal its insubstantiality. Then after a long moment, the older woman said, "Very well. I am certain you know best, my dear, as it is after all your career, and your neck, that you're wagering, and doubtless you do not need me to tell you so. You'll be leaving early, so you should get some – sleep." The tiniest of hesitations before that last word, and the way her eyes momentarily flickered to the closed door, made it clear that she had left it up to Emma to decide just what sort of sleep she meant.

Apparently, Emma thought now as she sat up again and climbed out of bed, exactly what Miranda had already suspected, damn it. She crossed the floor to where she had dropped her clothes, and put them on quickly, just tying the drawstring of her breeches when Killian stirred, rubbed a hand over his face, had that same haze of pleasurable confusion that had hit her, and then as well that same oh-bloody-hell-what-did-I-do moment of realization. Carefully looking anywhere but at her, he swaddled himself in the sheet and got up to retrieve his clothes, as she exited posthaste so he could get dressed. He emerged a few minutes later, fully clad and faintly flushed, as they went to the kitchen, collected the honey cakes Miranda offered (far too diplomatic to enquire how well they had slept, and probably perfectly well aware anyway) and emerged into the still, stuffy early morning. Keeping at least five paces apart from each other, they grimly set off for another sweaty trudge back into town.

The sun was well up and scorching by the time they made it, worked their way down to the waterfront, and managed to acquire the loan of a boat from one of the shore-trawlers. The _Imperator_ was still anchored in the harbor and in one piece, which was reassuring, but there was no way to know who might have clandestinely scouted it out during their extended stay, and what they might have concluded if so. They rode out, went aboard, and were greeted with relief by the crew, which of course had not known the reason for their delay and must have wondered if they had come to some sticky end in this wretched hive of scum and villainy. Killian gave the order to make sail, which was followed with alacrity. No surprise that Navy men wanted to get out of bloody Nassau as soon as possible.

As they got underway, Emma let out a slow breath, almost allowing herself to believe that they had pulled this off without complete catastrophe. Billy could have no reason to further doubt their sincerity (even if, obviously, he was completely right to do so) and from here, it was not far to the wreck site off the coast of Florida. They'd have to be bloody careful, though. No relief force could have arrived from Havana yet, as they might not even have gotten the news, and her plan did not work until the _Blackbird,_ the _Walrus,_ and sundry other enterprising sorts had gotten there too. They could just sit far enough out to sea to avoid tipping off the nervous, half-drowned survivors huddled on the beach to watch over the wrecks, though an actual pirate ship of their size and power would likely move to engage at once. But if for some reason the Spaniards were still able to mount an effective defense, they likewise did not want to sail straight into the teeth of a full battle.

Either way, Emma told herself, this was almost over. They had survived a major test and come out standing, and however poor her odds were, she was as yet still managing to win with them. Whatever consequences Killian would face as a result of this. . . well, that was not her concern, and hauling in a few unlucky small-time looters would have to pacify the high command. Even if she knew it wouldn't, there was in all likelihood a plot to murder them both that would not be deterred by one-time failure, and she had told Miranda who he really was. She doubted Miranda would rush off straightaway to inform anyone, but still. It had been done.

Yet Emma herself was on the verge of freedom. Nothing had happened to her that could not be fixed. Jump ship with Billy, and she was back to her old life, where everyone was trying to kill her anyway and so was not terribly different from the usual. Even if she had proposed this plan as something to help them both, Killian would be the one to suffer for it. In the end, it had only been for her benefit, and she had taken advantage of his evident attraction and weakness around her as crassly as if she'd just fucked him in the brig the first time and had done with it. She could disguise it with notions of cooperation and clever politics all she wanted, a better and more elegant solution, but it still rested on destroying him and the entire life he knew to save her skin.

No matter. She couldn't look back. Not when she was so close to getting home. To doing the impossible, to escaping this. That had to give her considerable prestige. If Billy for obvious reasons did not feel safe returning to the _Walrus,_ he would be a valuable and respected addition to her crew. She could still emerge from this mess a stronger captain than when she went in. So close. No need to tip the balance now.

Not a one.


	12. XII

**-XII-**

The twelve ships of the 1715 Spanish treasure fleet – the five vessels of the Nueva España flotilla, the six of the Tierra Firme, and the one French frigate, _El Grifón_ – represented the very survival of a bankrupt, war-ravaged empire. King Philip V had issued orders that every piece of treasure that could possibly be wrung out of the Indies should be so, without regard for cost or danger, and the brutal colonial overseers were only too happy to comply. Nonetheless, as generally was the case when operating from desperation, the mishaps piled up, the delays became cumulative, the provincial governors sent their mule trains to other ports, requisitions were not reached, and by the time they set sail from Havana late in July, there was already very little chance they could reach Cadiz as fast as they were needed there. Of the eleven Spanish ships, six carried portions of the vast treasure haul: the _Capitana_ and _Almiranta_ of each flotilla, along with the _Refuerza_ of the Nueva España and the _Nuestra Señora de Concepcion_ of the Tierra Firme. The _El Ciervo_ and two smaller frigates carried brazilwood and tobacco, and the _patache,_ or packet boat, hauled 44,000 pesos in coins. The _Urca de Lima_ likewise carried chests of privately owned silver destined for wealthy landowners back in Spain, along with chocolate, coffee, vanilla, sassafras, and spices – all delicacies to fetch a high price in fashionable European markets, but not the gold-laden strongboxes originally planned. This last-minute alteration to the value of her cargo, as well as changing her assignment as _almiranta,_ occurred after Captain-General Don Juan Esteban de Ubilla, fleet commander, discovered that a man named Vasquez had been talking far more than was good for him, and may have put some unsavoury sorts onto the scent of where to chase down the _Urca's_ scheduled supply stop in Florida; indeed, the ship's proper name was _Santísima Trinidad._ "Urca" was the term for a sort of stout-built supply vessel, and her master was Miguel de Lima, hence the shorthand.

So, then, for the eleven Spaniards. The twelfth ship, the French _Grif_ _ó_ _n,_ was intended to serve as the first line of defense in any naval engagement, a fast attack frigate of twenty-four guns. The galleons were heavily equipped with cannon and well-armed Spanish soldiers, hulls built of nearly impenetrable six-inch-thick oaken beams. But they were also slow, lumbering, and at a disadvantage against a smaller and more maneuverable vessel willing to take damage in a head-on attack, even one with less firepower. Together they could cover each other's weak side and handily blast any interloper to smithereens, but one alone, wounded and picked off, was vulnerable. If it was even one of the six treasure ships, each representing close to twenty percent of Spain's desperately needed gross income for the past several years, it would be catastrophic.

This was why Don Juan had gone to so much effort to outsmart the pirates by changing the _Urca's_ course and cargo, hanging Vasquez as a sharp lesson to the rest, and engaging the _Grif_ _ó_ _n_ for extra protection _–_ the French and Spanish Catholic Bourbons, cousins to each other and united by an equally vigorous hatred of the English, were fairly natural partners. Also why, when the hurricane struck, sank all the ships except for the _Grif_ _ó_ _n_ (which managed to get away) and the _Urca_ (which was driven up on a reef just offshore and grounded, heavily damaged), and otherwise made hash of all these careful preparations, you possibly had to feel just that bit sorry for the bloke. Ubilla could not even curse his misfortunes himself, as they had put a fitting final touch by drowning him in the storm, along with over half of the two-thousand-strong Spanish contingent. From an English point of view, the calamity was vast enough to suggest the very Almighty's personal and pointed displeasure.

The scattered survivors had dispatched a small group of men north to St. Augustine, to plead with the Spanish authorities to send salvage vessels and more soldiers at once, while faced with the fact that it might have been easier if the _Urca_ had sunk as well. The beached hulk was easily visible for miles, and coins, gold and silver ingots, jewels, and other pieces kept washing ashore, along with the bloated, reeking bodies of drowned sailors. While they had dragged as many cannon off the _Urca_ to guard their makeshift beach fortifications as they could, they were in even direr straits than when the Royal Navy had sunk the Tierra Firme fleet off Cartagena in 1708, at the height of the war, and knew it. They had tried to start amateur recovery operations, kidnapping local Indians and forcing them to dive the wreck sites, but this had not worked very well, and resulted only in the meagrest amount of treasure being returned to them.

In short, they were living in fear of exactly what they spotted on the horizon, a few days later. Pirate sails.

* * *

There were any number of excellent reasons not to get too close. That had been assuming they could locate the exact position of the wrecks, as the English army informant had only been able to give a vague description of the uncharted Florida coastline they were believed to have fetched on, but even that was enough for Killian to hammer out a working map of potential sites. They trawled along the outlying estuaries and marshland for a bit, until the lookout reported something bearing a remarkable resemblance to a grounded Spanish galleon, on the reef just a few miles distant. They immediately put further out to sea to avoid the castaways getting any good look at them; disguised or not, Spanish sailors had fought the Navy at close range long enough to bloody well know one of Old Blighty's ships when they saw one. When they dropped anchor in the open water, far enough away that the salvage camp was just a faint blur on the horizon, it became clear that temporary delay in Nassau or not, they were still by far the first of potential looters to arrive, and if they were not going to sail in and jump overboard themselves in hopes of plucking fistfuls of treasure off the sea-bottom, they were stuck with some free time while waiting for the trap to spring. Killian steadfastly vowed that no matter what, this would not involve passing it in any more interludes of carnal congress with Emma Swan. Absolutely, emphatically not.

Which must have been the reason why, about three hours later, he found himself engaged in an interlude of carnal congress with Emma Swan, this time in his cabin, as she was half on the table beneath him and he was grasping hold of the heavy, carved leg to brace himself, riding into her hard and deep, mouth hot against her hair, as she wrapped her arms around his back and nipped at his ear, both of them swearing and groaning in long, shuddering gasps as the ease and ecstasy of relief washed through them. He hitched himself up on her and gave a final, wracking thrust, then collapsed on her shoulder, able to hear nothing except his own racing heart and the rasp of their collective struggle for breath, until he finally recollected general use of his limbs, slid off, and did up his trousers. Pray Christ that if any passing crew members had heard anything, they would just assume he was claiming the captain's prerogative with a pretty female prisoner – which was not, after all, strictly inaccurate. "That was," he said, still feeling clubbed, too little of his blood in his head. "That was a mistake. I did not intend that, madam."

Emma was still sprawled on the table, blouse and breeches undone, quills and inkwells and charts and dispatches knocked askew where he had lifted her onto it in his haste, but she gave him a very wry look, as if to remark that this could have _possibly_ occurred to him at literally any point beforehand. The obvious fact – that he had not thought it in any way enough of a mistake to stop, and neither for that matter had she – hung between them, dangerously unspoken, as she straightened up and began restoring her own clothes. "I suppose it isn't terribly unusual," she said, half-sounding as if she was trying to convince herself. A corner of her mouth twitched. "And it's certainly preferable to being flogged, at least in my experience."

"Oh?" Killian could not quite keep the jealous tinge out of his voice. "Sleep with Royal Navy captains who take you prisoner often, do you?"

"I can assure you." Emma combed her tangled hair with her fingers and did it up in a rough braid. "You are the first."

"First Navy captain, you mean? Surely not the first captain ever?"

She raised an eyebrow. "And this is your business why?"

"It's not." Killian clamped his mouth shut like a trap, in which state he succeeded in keeping it for ten whole seconds before opening it again to add, "At least tell me it wasn't fucking Vane."

At that, Emma actually laughed. "No. While he does fancy tough, ambitious blonde women, it's more that he fancies one of them, and I'm not about to piss off Eleanor by getting involved in any intimate capacity with him. Either she likes him and she would be jealous of me, or she hates him, which is usually the case, and would regard it as a betrayal on my part. So no, not at all. Even if he was my sort, which he isn't."

"Oh." Killian duly chastised himself for the prick of relief he felt. "And I'm assuming not Flint either, then? Seems a bit strange, since you were his student?"

Emma gave him a very cold look. "Bloody hell. No. And if you ask one more question about my history with men, the first thing I'll do when I get the _Blackbird_ back is to keelhaul you."

Killian shut his mouth for the second time in as many minutes, displeased with himself for bungling it enough to lose his chance to ask about Billy Bones, as he next intended to (though was not sure he wanted to hear the answer). The air was filled with that same strange, slick, all-powerful tension that tuned the silence to a pitch, as if they had to get away from each other now or risk everything blowing up like a stray spark in the powder magazine. Oh God, Liam was going to _kill_ him. The thought of what his brother might say, about how he could have utterly destroyed the trust and love of a lifetime that bound them together, any chance of them sailing normally in the future, crashed into his stomach like a leaden weight.

Emma must have sensed the abrupt shift in his mood. Quite perceptive lass, that one. Bit too bloody much for comfort, just now. "Cap – Captain?" She sounded as if she didn't want to ask, but couldn't stop herself. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Killian forced a smile. "Only that, once Liam hears of this. . . it's probably exactly what he feared would come of letting me take over. Everything I've done, since we parted."

Emma winced. "The plan – it was my idea. And it. . . it seems to be mostly helping me, anyway. It's my fault, more than yours."

"Aye, but you didn't hold a gun to my head and force me to agree! I took it on without asking a second question! This – being like this, with me as Hook, and with. . . with you. . . Liam's not like me, he would never even have been tempted, much less gone through with it. Repeatedly." Killian could feel the flush rising in his cheeks again, furious that he could not seem to think straight around her – but not at her, at himself. That he was doing exactly what James Nolan had predicted, and folding like a bad hand of whist after just a few days without his brother. As if all that was goodness and rightness and strength in the world was Liam, and he was just a stunted, shriveled dark shadow, weighing him down. No matter how much he reassured himself that Liam loved him, he couldn't help but wonder if it was out of charity. Pity. Knowing that he would die if Liam left him, and his brother was of course too good a man to have that on his conscience. But how much easier would his life have bloody been, if he had just listened when Killian told him to leave him, and gone?

Emma was watching his face, with a pained, troubled expression. After a moment she said, almost in a whisper, "Capt – Killian. Has it ever occurred to you that you might not, well, know the full story?"

"What?" Killian looked at her in startlement. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Emma looked exquisitely uncomfortable – once more as if she did not want at all to do this, but for a rather different reason. "About how you two got out of slavery."

"Christ, not this again. I already told you, I know how we got out of slavery!"

"No." Emma pressed her lips together. "You don't."

"And you'd magically know anything about this – why?"

"In the brig," Emma said, with great reluctance. "Just before the hurricane hit. Liam came down to question me. I challenged him on the story you had told me, about the money-lenders and the ring. Quite extensively, I can assure you. He admitted that it. . . it wasn't true. I'm sorry."

" _What?"_ Killian reared back like a viper. "Are you out of your mind? Now you're just bald-faced lying to me, trying to shore up your advantage, because you know I'm – I'm not myself around you! Liam would never do that! Who am I supposed to believe, my brother who loves me and has always cared for me, or a manipulative, scheming, two-faced _pirate?"_

"I'm sorry," Emma said again, ashen. "He didn't tell me what he'd actually done, but he did it _because_ he loves you, because he had to get you out of slavery at any price. He said he wanted to bear the consequences of that decision. Not force it to be you. I told him it wasn't his choice to make, but – "

"Didn't tell you what he'd 'really' done? How convenient! Exempting you from having to provide the first shred of evidence for this preposterous slander!" Killian's voice rose, and he could feel his blood rising with it. The stirring of that dark, dangerous corner of his soul that made him do things like running into the thick of the burning slave market, like ordering an attack on the _Scarborough_ to save a pirate, like finding the cloak of Captain Hook easier and easier to slip over his shoulders – almost more of a second skin that was growing over him and from which he could not escape, tightening its hold the more he struggled, like one of the great strangler snakes of the Amazon. "Liam would never lie to me! Especially not about something like this, our freedom, the reason we didn't waste away in the bowels of Captain Silver's fucking piss jar of a trading scow – the reason we have a _life – "_

Emma just looked at him with that haunted expression. For the third time she said, "I'm sorry."

"Save your breath." Killian spun on his heel, part in rage and part to stop her from seeing the furious tears burning under his eyelashes. This was only what he deserved, for being such a monumental, unbelievable, unsurpassable fool. If he had thought for the remotest instant that she was somehow different, that what was between them was not in fact usual, that they were something beyond pirate and Navy, all those naïve dreams were gone. She too just wanted to stab him in the back, then twist the knife, made the worse since she had now been around him long enough to know exactly where it would hurt the most. "I'm going on deck."

With that, he stormed out, slamming the cabin door hard enough to shake and attracting startled stares. He did his best to contort his face into something calm and commanding, but he was still unconscionably rattled. If Liam would lie to him, not trust him with the truth of something as great as their freedom. . . it meant that he in fact did not love him, or did not really believe that Killian could handle himself, or resist the seductive beast that nipped at his heels, the lure of that shadow and that snare. Surely it was not possible. Liam wouldn't do that, end of discussion. So Emma must be lying, because of course she was, because she was a pirate and she had very nearly succeeded in swaying him from his path in any number of ways. His head clattered madly down worse and worse potential avenues like a runaway ox-cart as he stood at the railing, clenching it so hard his knuckles went white. Christ. Of course she'd choose now to volley this accusation, when Liam was gone and couldn't say or do anything to defend himself. Of course.

Unwanted, unbidden, the memory of Liam's strange behavior before their departure from Antigua, his utter insistence on not meeting Gold and Mr. Plouton of Bristol for supper, sidled into the back of Killian's mind. Even spending their emergency money on a bribe to avoid it, not like Liam at all, and mentioning that Mr. Plouton was a fraud and potential murderer, sinking ships to collect on their insurance profits – but the _Benjamin Gunn_ had gone down in a storm, pure mischance, not that Captain Silver had not thoroughly deserved it, rat bastard as he was –

Though it _was_ true that before that voyage, Liam had disappeared overnight and not quite told Killian where he was going. That he returned with some sort of sealed letter, late and after dark. Told Killian to sneak quietly off the ship while the crew were asleep, then followed him a few minutes later. Led them up the streets to a certain tavern, knocked at the back, given the letter to the man who answered the door and said something to him in a low voice. The Jones brothers stayed hidden in the attic until the _Benjamin Gunn_ departed, and went to buy their commissions the next day. Liam must have already had the funds from the money-lenders. Simply convenient that the _Ben Gunn_ never returned, and thus Captain Silver had no chance to complain or try to recapture them. Simply coincidence that all of this had taken place in Bristol, the _Ben Gunn's_ home port, and also the place where Mr. Plouton ran his discreditable operation. What had Liam said of him? _He's in the assurances and securities business, one of the scoundrels who makes their living by profiting off the misfortune of ships and sailors. It's rumored he periodically arranges for something to happen to the vessels of particularly well-off merchants, so he can collect on the payment for the loss of their cargo._

Bloody hell. If Plouton had wanted to destroy the _Ben Gunn_ for this purpose,and cut Liam some sort of infernal bargain – sabotage it, see that it went down, and Plouton would put up the money for Liam and Killian to pay off their remaining bond and buy their commissions, out of the profit he made on the sinking – _bloody hell –_

No. No, absolutely not. Liam would never agree to that. Killian was horribly ashamed of himself even for thinking out the scenario in such detail thus far. Besides. Silver had been a bully and a tyrant, his crew a gang of mumbling malcontents. No loss to anyone, anyway. Not to –

"Captain!"

Startled out of its increasingly unpleasant preoccupations, Killian's head jerked in the direction of the hail, not sure what to expect – not the Spaniards piling into a launch to sail out here to fight them on tremendously disadvantageous terms? No commander would be that stupid. But indeed the source of the interest did not come from the beach, but from the sea to the north. Just visible on the horizon, but coming on quickly, was a large two-master of some sort – not their size, but not the makeshift shore-craft of a ne'er-do-well local looter who might have heard stories of Spanish gold in the water, free for the taking, and decided to give it a whirl. Also not the _Walrus,_ and not any of the other notorious vessels the Navy knew of. Not flying any discernible flag, whether the Burgundy cross of Spain, the Union Jack of England, the white of France, or the black of a pirate ship. No ensign at all.

A faint chill went down Killian's back. He held out his hand for the spyglass; they were at anchor and the wind was with the newcomer, they would be closing into firing range (if such activities were what they had in mind) in less than a bell. As yet, they were still too far apart to see what the crew might look like, other than small darting figures. Then a voice behind him said, "Jennings."

Annoyed and disconcerted, he turned sharply to see Emma – who, taking no apparent heed of their previous disagreement, had emerged from the cabin, determinedly pretending not to see the accusing stares of the crew. That alone must mean this was serious, especially when she plucked the spyglass from his hand, took a cursory look, and twisted it shut with a curse. "Henry Jennings," she repeated. "Lord Archibald Hamilton's own privateer. That's not just any ragged scavenger you can fire on. But Hamilton. . ." She hesitated. "How much did your brother tell you, about what I suspected of his political leanings?"

"He's the governor of bloody Jamaica," Killian snapped, feeling as this was quite beyond the pale of usefulness for the present situation. "He'd more than likely hang me if he knew what I did in Kingston, and seeing as we still have the ten pounds Liam had to borrow from him for my ransom, thanks to you, he probably sees that as insult to – "

"No, not that. I mean that he may be a Jacobite." Emma's frown deepened. "So if Hamilton's a traitor, Jennings wouldn't be a lawful privateer, but a mere pirate, and probably also a Jacobite himself. And – "

"Aye, maybe, but we've no way to prove that Hamilton is doing anything material to support James Stuart!" Killian beckoned for the bo'sun and ordered the guns loaded, then turned back to Emma. "Unless you have some other brilliant plan? I doubt _he's_ going to stop to conduct a polite review of our origins and motives before he fires!"

"No," Emma said. "He won't. He's as ruthless as some of our own most feared captains, from what we've heard on Nassau. So you have a choice. Either reveal yourself as a Royal Navy warship right now, therefore one he can't fire on as a fellow agent of His Majesty's Government, or stay disguised as a pirate and prepare for battle."

"Why would he bother to sink us if there's Spanish treasure to steal? But it's a bit of a bad look for Governor Hamilton's hired goon to be pick-pocketing them, isn't it?"

"Because he has a _commission_ to hunt pirates! That's what letters of marque are!" Emma hopped from foot to foot in agitation, even as he was opening his mouth to heatedly retort that he knew just fine what they were, thanks. "A government license to engage in pirating activities in order to stop pirates! Jennings could sink the _Jolie Rouge_ and it would be perfectly within the scope of his sanctioned activities! But if he sank the _Imperator,_ he'd be in a world of trouble. You have to reveal yourself. Run up the Union Jack and signal him."

"So where does that leave me, when the other looters arrive? Sitting here exposed, a Royal Navy ship all by herself, the exact situation we devised this ridiculous plan to _avoid?_ Do you think Jennings would make me a good friend or reliable ally, the traitorous Governor's mad dog?"

Emma hesitated. The answer was plain on her face.

The other ship was well in view now, her gun ports running open. Killian barked for the anchor to be raised, bringing the _Imperator_ around to put the wind at her back. She was a ship of the line, which meant exactly what it sounded like; she was intended to sail in a battle line with other first-through-third raters, bombarding the enemy with constant broadsides, rather than to conduct lone-wolf attacks such as the fourth-through-sixth-rate frigates. As such, they could not let Jennings get the jump on them, as his ship was better designed for these kinds of engagements. Killian ran a quick eye over their foe, trying to estimate her carriage. About seven ports on one side of the gun deck, at least four cannon visible on the maindeck, and probably two on the bow – no, make that definitely two on the bow, as they had just fired with an echoing boom and cloud of white smoke. Minimum of twenty, probably not many more. The _Imperator_ was currently running eighteen guns per side, so if it was a question of damaging Jennings but not sinking him outright, it would take some calculation. After all, sending Governor Hamilton's personal agent to the seafloor to inspect the treasure in person, when as far as everyone knew Governor Hamilton was still a loyal servant of the British Crown, would be rather fiddly indeed.

And yet, that same incipient madness was pulling at him, whispering seductively. Lord Archibald was the bastard who licensed the Kingston slave market and profited from its operations, who had hinted he might be willing to turn them in to conceal his own dishonesty, who had hired this bloody Jennings arsehole who would probably stab them in the back even if he did know they were Navy, and Killian was already furious enough at Emma for lying to him about Liam that he was not disposed to take her advice yet one more time. _Let_ them investigate Jennings and Hamilton and discover their treachery. Britain and Spain were, legally speaking, at peace, so this flagrant provocation on Spanish waters, on Spanish treasure, would be a major affront and diplomatic scandal. Jennings was probably risking it since any money he stole could be sent to the pretender James Stuart, and that of course was high treason, a crime worthy of hanging, drawing, and quartering at Tyburn. It would be a far bigger prize than some meaningless, no-name rabble, the kind of revelation to actually make a difference to the Admiralty and shake the crooked politicians of the West Indies in their embezzling undergarments. After all, it did work both ways. If Lord Archibald had considered handing in the Jones brothers as traitors for his own benefit, Killian could hand in Lord Archibald as a traitor and receive an official reprieve from the consequences of this star-crossed decision to play pirate in the first place. It was really rather serendipitous.

With that in mind, the decision was easy. As the two ships closed toward each other head to head, both avoiding presenting a broad target, he bellowed, "Forward batteries! _Fire!"_

Emma's jaw dropped. Clearly she had not expected him either to defy her advice or to be quite so drastic about it, and she made a convulsive movement as if to clutch his arm. He ignored it, aware of a fierce, transcendent thrill as the first volley went off with a roar, hailing fiery streaks into the already white-blazing sea, like the hammer of the gods striking at the heart of their smoking forge. There were shouts of alarm from the other vessel as they swung hard into evasive action, but the well-trained Navy gunners had already loaded the second volley, which they duly lit at Killian's order. He thought he glimpsed Jennings himself through the spyglass: a tall, towheaded musketeer-of-fortune in a well-cut gentleman's coat, with eyes like dirty ice, striding the quarterdeck and bellowing at his own gun crews. Then his head abruptly lifted, for all the world as if he could sense his rival's regard from across the water, and he looked straight at Killian, although he certainly couldn't actually see him. It was in that moment, quite firmly and unnervingly, when Killian knew that he had just made a dangerous and lifelong enemy.

Nonetheless, having acquired a position where its superior guns had the advantage over the privateers' speed, the _Imperator_ was swiftly getting the upper hand. They exchanged a few more salvos, splintering wood and shattering spars, before Jennings and company realized that they were decidedly overmatched. Fighting through to get their hands on the prize, while theoretically possible, would be much too costly, and leave any divers that they _did_ get in the water vulnerable to riflemen,as well as whatever sorties the Spaniards might feel disposed to mount from the beach. They heeled around with a final parting shot from the stern chasers, clearly more as a matter of pride so it did not look as if they were running away (even if they were), in order to lick their wounds and await a more favorable circumstance.

A cheer went up from the _Imperator's_ gun deck, as they had just sent a formidable opponent into tail-between-his-legs retreat with no more than a few backhanded cuffs; the skirmish had barely taken fifteen minutes. As said opponent was also a pirate, or like enough one to make no difference, it was also much easier on their sensibilities than attacking the _Scarborough_ or taking friendly fire as a result. For a moment, the whole outlandish deception felt worth it, as Killian would have several interesting tidbits about Jennings and Hamilton to drop into his report when they got back to Antigua. The shitstorm _that_ would stir up would be quite sufficient to get him exonerated for anything else he had had to do along the way.

Feeling enormously pleased with himself, he turned to see what Emma thought of this, hoping she would admire his cleverness and skill, before remembering he was still mad at her. But rather to his consternation, she wasn't paying attention either way. Instead she was staring over the rail at a small shape in the eastern waters, which was likewise starting to draw the attention of the crew, breaking off from their small knots of celebration. No, not one shape – two, drawing on. Until it became apparent that it was both what they had wanted to see, and which Killian, at least, had somehow, ridiculously prayed that they never would.

The _Blackbird_ and the _Walrus._

* * *

For an endless moment, Emma just stared at the vessels, approaching in precise enough formation that they were clearly sailing in consort with some kind of organized attack plan. What that might be, who Flint had put in charge of her ship, whether it was even a wise idea to make a break for it now – she fiercely shoved aside the brief, sharp pang in her gut, almost physical, as if she had secretly hoped not to see them and thus be forced to the moment of reckoning – flashed through her head, until she remembered what she had to do. There was no way she could say something to Killian in front of the men, much less anything else, and they stared at each other for another paralysed moment, as if feeling it like a wound torn open, something joined together being put asunder, too much, _too much._ Then she snapped out of it, turned, and ran.

The deck was starting to shake beneath her feet with the gun crews rushing back to their stations, realizing their task was only half done. She ducked down the ladder and into the forward bulkhead, only to find Billy out of his hammock and on the brink of likewise absconding while their captors were occupied. He looked startled to see her, and not that pleased, clearly considering his future with her to be possibly as dim as it was with Flint. Then Emma grabbed him by the shirt, hissed, _"Come on!",_ and hauled him toward the narrow catwalk leading past the surgery and into the brig. Due to her prior close inspection of the place, she knew there was a port on the starboard side where the filth of the animals could be pitched overboard, just large enough to admit a person (though Billy would have a very tight squeeze). _This was the plan. There would be a distraction, and the two of us would escape._ Everything was, against every odd in the world, working perfectly. They might actually get away. No reason, then, for her heart to feel as if it had been ripped out of her chest.

She would not look back. She and Billy sprinted down the catwalk, hearing thuds and booms from above, the renewed fusillade of heavy cannon fire. God, please let there still be a _Blackbird_ to get back to in another five minutes. They reached the end of the passage, darted past the empty brig and the animal pens, and she hauled the waste port open, both of them getting a faceful of seawater as the _Imperator_ splashed down hard in a trough. She thrust head and shoulders into the grime-encrusted beams, trying not to think too hard about what she was crawling through, and squirmed, assisted by a sharp push from Billy. For a terrifying instant she was stuck, until she shot free, barely had time to hold her breath, and hit the warm green water like a rock.

She kicked blindly, clawing a good ten feet or so back to the surface, until she broke it with a gasp – only to nearly be flattened again as Billy popped out with a "Fuck!" audible over the rest of the ruckus, and went promptly under. He emerged a few seconds later, paddling furiously, as both of them were in great danger of being sucked under the _Imperator's_ bow and drowned, or cut to ribbons by the razor-sharp barnacles on the keel. From here, the _Blackbird_ was no more than three hundred yards away, and they saw it at the same time. No matter what Billy might think of the likelihood of his prospects, he had no choice but to do the same as her, and try to get to it. Furthermore, since if they surfaced they could also be taken out by musket fire from the _Imperator_ , they would have to swim as much of it as possible underwater.

A cannon went off directly over Emma's head, deafening her. She didn't know why some of the salt water on her face felt like tears. She took three quick breaths and then a deep one, and dove, kicking as hard and long as she could, opening her eyes and forcing them to stay that way despite the sting, and peering wildly through the gauzy murk to not much avail. She half-expected a skeleton to reach up and grab her ankle, even though they were too far out to be over the Spanish wrecks. Bullets and broken debris perforated the water in rippled white contrails, the sound of the battle dim and faint from above. She didn't know exactly where Billy was – she certainly hoped the large blurry shape that had just kicked past her was him, and not, say, a shark. She could not make out anything of her bearings, how much further it might be. Her lungs were starting to scream. Just her luck if she got disoriented, swam in a circle, and popped up again right next to the _Imperator._ Then at least she could apologise to Killian for this, for –

No. No time. _No time._ A shadow was falling on her from above, of a familiar size and shape, and she stroked upward desperately, black spots fizzing before her eyes. Then she broke the surface with a retching, gagging gasp, knocked her head against something solid, and snagged one of the _Blackbird's_ bow lines, pulling herself into the prow, doing a somersault onto the foredeck, and scaring the absolute life out of Gaston, who must have thought that in addition to fucking everything else, the mer-people were now attacking them too.

The immediately following moments were a blur. Emma lay flat, coughing her innards out, as stunned faces gathered around her; her reappearance literally from the blue must be downright miraculous, though of a good or bad sort was impossible to say. A few feet away, Billy was also sprawled on the boards, hacking and spitting, as there was another cracking report of guns, a whistle and a roar, and a cannonball just missed the mast. Everything was simply too insane to be dealt with, and so Emma continued to lie there, oddly and utterly detached from the ravening chaos, until a disbelieving voice said, "Miss _Swan?"_

She wrenched her malfunctioning eyes open, not sure just who she expected, until the astonished face of Mr. Gates, Flint's quartermaster, hove into view. Since she didn't see Will – Flint wouldn't trust him to carry out his wishes, knowing of Will's unswerving loyalty to her – it seemed likely to assume that Gates had been installed on the _Blackbird_ as surrogate captain, probably with lavish promises of Spanish treasure to compensate for the change. Bloody hell, she was gone for a week or so and Flint had already taken over her ship and her crew and suborned them to his own uses. Not as if it looked as if she was ever coming back, and certainly it was a damn sight better than handing them over to Felix, but it still provoked a sharp burn of anger. She'd saved the manipulative blackguard's damn life, and this was how he was going to repay her? Much as she cared for Miranda, Flint himself remained quite a reach.

"Aye," Emma said, as coldly as possible, even as she then saw Gates' eyes flick to Billy, and a dawning, terrible realization cross his face. Indeed if there had been – as she had gathered from her interactions with both Flint and Billy – some sort of nefarious ulterior motive on the former's part in ensuring that the latter went overboard, Billy's reappearance now, after he failed to have the good decency to drown, would blow up _Walrus_ shipboard politics even more spectacularly than the _Imperator_ was currently trying to do. And since "nefarious ulterior motive" was Flint's middle name, and since he had already nearly been mutinied upon in the recent past, this would pour an entire hogshead of oil on the blaze. Not, of course, that Flint did not deserve it, but they were still stuck with the fact that losing him would be the beginning of the end for the pirates' republic. He was the pillars of the temple and Samson alike. Perfidious black-hearted bastard though he was, they would nonetheless have a very hard time without him.

And yet. They were still sailing down the throat of a full-bore gun battle, she could tell that the ship had been hastily jerry-rigged to become seaworthy again and one direct hit might do for them, and there was no way to know if Killian Jones still considered himself bound by any sort of agreement, especially after he had made a point of ignoring her on the subject of Jennings. She knew she shouldn't have pushed him so much about Liam, but in that moment, already wracked with guilt over her role in taking him this far, seeing him believe that his so-called perfect elder brother had never done anything wrong in his life, that he himself was worthless. . . she hadn't been able to stand it. But it, of course, was not something that Killian could possibly hear or countenance, the rock on which his life and his increasingly shaky allegiance to the Navy was built, and so all she had done was to make things even worse.

What was done was done. She had to forget it, she had to. Emma struggled unsteadily to her feet, making for the wheel. "We need to get the hell out of here, before – "

Gates made a motion as if to hold her back, then wisely thought the better of it. If Flint had sent the _Blackbird_ in first to draw fire so he could slip around the back, as the stratagem appeared to be, Emma had no intention of complying. She hauled on the helm, trying to correct them from what had become a nearly dead-set collision course with the _Imperator,_ close enough that its men must see their erstwhile captive seemingly rushing straight at them in a suicide maneuver, the last and climactic step of a brilliantly choreographed betrayal. The water churned in pillars of froth as Emma continued pulling with all her strength; even as comparatively light a vessel as the _Blackbird_ did not stop or turn on a sixpence, especially with the wind driving her on as mercilessly as a goad and such little room to avoid impact. But she was making it, she was –

And then, something – or rather, some _one –_ hit Emma very hard in the back, sending her slamming over the helm-housing, dazed. As she rolled away, swearing, she stared up into the face of Felix himself, alight with manic intent. Evidently if she was also going to pull a Billy Bones and resurrect from a watery grave when it would have been far more convenient for certain parties if she hadn't, he was not going to suffer it quietly. If he couldn't have the _Blackbird,_ neither could she. He'd ram the _Imperator_ broadside, fatally wound both ships, swim away to get picked up by the _Walrus,_ and start fresh with a new crew on Nassau. Presumably also one with an insecure or disliked captain ripe for the toppling.

Emma could see this plan written out over Felix's head as clearly as if spelled in letters of fire. She was still gulping for the wind he had knocked out of her, and she couldn't get up and stop him in time. They were now so close to the _Imperator_ that the next volley actually overshot them, screaming into the sea astern, and it was stupid, it was so stupid, all this work and deception and destruction just to end up right where she started, and there would certainly be no tender sensibilities this time to protect her from her well-deserved –

Then at that moment, Emma heard the crack of a musket, and out of nowhere, half of Felix's head exploded in a grisly spray of blood and bone. It was so quick and so violent that she barely believed it, kept blinking in shock, absurdly convinced it must somehow be Liam, after he had shot Macintosh back in Jamaica. But it wasn't. Still in his Captain Hook garb – as if he would have had time to change in the heat of battle, if that was even something he was going to do – Killian was holding the smoking musket to his shoulder on the deck of the _Imperator,_ and for a petrified instant, their eyes locked. There was something in his face that made Emma certain he had seen exactly what had happened – all of it. That he hadn't just shot Felix to neutralize a threat to his own vessel, but also because of what Felix had tried to do to her.

Emma lurched to her feet, breaking the spell. Dove for the wheel, shoved Felix aside as he was rapidly completing the process of turning into a corpse, and managed to wrestle them past the _Imperator_ with mere inches to spare, close enough that their sides nearly kissed. But they got free without fouling, and she had the thought that if they could just gain a few lengths and make an escape look remotely convincing, Killian would not go to the bother of pursuing her. His work at the Spanish wrecks was done – indeed, downright successfully. He had chased off Jennings and could reveal Hamilton's treachery, and he had just killed someone he could more or less truthfully identify as the "captain of the _Blackbird"_ in official reports. If the Admiralty took that to mean Emma herself, there was no way to prove he'd failed in his charge. He might still make it through this. It might have been worth it. Oh God, oh Christ, it had to be.

So far as it went, this supposition proved accurate. There were a few more desultory shots from the bow-chasers, but the _Imperator_ quickly fell away behind without making any particular effort to catch up. Where the hell was the damn _Walrus?_ Flint had clearly taken the opportunity of the dust-up to sneak into the wreck site, and if he was now girding for an attack on the beach – but that didn't seem like him, not until he knew exactly what he was up against –

Emma steered the _Blackbird_ as close to the coastline as they could go, which was just a few hundred yards, as the brigantine was shallow on the draft. She thought she could pick out the _Walrus_ just southward, though it had also moved into the bend of the rocky promontory to disguise itself and wait for the _Imperator_ to leave, rather than shooting at them too. Hopefully Killian's decision to do so signaled him keeping to the bargain and permitting her to ask Flint to back her in whatever she intended to do – at the moment, she had not a bleeding clue what that was, but at least it meant they had followed through on their obligations and were quit of further ones. Done. No more. Her ears were still ringing, her hands shaking, and she couldn't catch her breath. Felix's blood was spattered on the wheel, running in slow red streamers across the boards, seeping from the ruin of his skull. He had almost stopped moaning, but not quite.

At last, they rode to a rocking halt at the mouth of a narrow inlet, everyone looking pale and stunned. Gaston drew his knife, came up, and economically put an end to Felix's suffering. Emma forced her hands to ungrip the helm, still conscious of tremors rattling through her from head to heel, as they watched the _Imperator_ recede further to sea and out of sight. She briefly felt as if her back had been broken, as if she wanted to collapse to her knees and come to pieces, but she didn't. Then she turned to Gates. "Where – where is Will?"

Gates hesitated. "On the _Walrus._ Flint proposed that him and me trade places. Also took that Jones fellow with him – the smiley one, looks as if he'd sell you seawater on a rainy day. Silver, our new. . . cook, had an interest in him. Birds of a same feather, those two."

Brennan Jones. Fuck. Emma had forgotten about him in the chaos of everything else. She raked her fingers through her hair, trying to slow her racing heart. Aye, she could see why Flint would want Will under his eye, as he was the only other major option for pulling the fragmented crew together and encouraging them not to listen to whatever scheme Flint had in mind. Will always claimed he had no interest in the captaincy, and she had seen nothing to suggest he was lying. But he also underestimated his own ability and popularity, not being a man who was in the pirate business for recognition or money or fame, but deeply personal and painful reasons he carefully hid under that glib, sarcastic exterior. The quartermaster was commonly elected as a check and counter on the captain's power, hence why Felix had held the post; if Will was quartermaster, everyone knew he'd just enforce what Emma said, thus potentially compromising the process of shipboard democracy and a proper airing of opposition views. Not that a pirate ship was run like Parliament (though if you gave a few of the more pugnacious back-benchers pistols and cutlasses, it was not hard to imagine Parliament being run like a pirate ship), but there was usually some forum and ability for the avoidance of tyranny by majority. Gates, with his close association with Flint, was an exception to the rule, and Emma knew he had come in for his share of censure because of it. But in her case, now that Felix was dead, it was entirely anyone's guess as to who would stand to take his place. Whether someone friendly to her and willing to endorse her future, or to undermine it in favor of their own such as he had, was utterly nebulous.

Gaston and a few of the others went below to fetch sailcloth and a cannonball to wrap the body in and pitch it overboard; in these salt marshes, it would probably be eaten by crocodiles almost at once. Emma didn't want to watch. Even if Felix had been her enemy at the end, and she was not particularly grieved by his demise, he had sailed with her for several years and done his job, for the most part, quite well. Too well, really. Meanwhile, Flint was probably waiting for dark to ambush the Spaniards, who must have been quite alarmed by the sea battle but perhaps gulled into thinking that all the combatants had left, at least for now. They could not rest too easy, however, knowing that their location had been divined. Even if one set of ravagers had been chased off, more must be soon to follow.

In the meantime, Emma had more pressing items of business to attend. She turned to Gates again. "Return to the _Walrus,"_ she ordered. "I'll be wanting my first mate back, if you please."

His gaze flickered. He didn't bother asking what she would do if he refused – he could see the looming, glowering specter of Billy Bones as well as she could. Instead he said, "You're sure that's wise, Miss Swan?"

"Captain," Emma corrected sharply. She liked Gates – he had a jolly, grandfatherly air, the sort of demeanor that got men to trust him even despite his alliance with the icy, calculating Flint. Hence, she knew he wasn't doing it to be purposefully insolent, probably just thought he was being polite, but right now she was not about to bend an inch on this point. Even with Felix gone, her position remained extremely tenuous. "And yes. Return to the _Walrus,_ let Flint know that I have a message for him, and ensure that he comes to discuss matters, bringing Will with him. He can keep Brennan Jones, as a gesture of. . . good faith." She wanted that man off her ship, and if things did go wrong and he ended up dying as a hostage, that at least was a terrible but effective way to ensure that he and his estranged, abandoned sons never crossed paths. What that might do to Killian – especially if he found out she had known of his father's existence and hadn't warned him – she didn't want to imagine.

Gates hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. "Aye," he said. "Very well. I'll be back by nightfall, I should reckon."

Emma nodded crisply in return, and bundled him into the ship's boat with Gaston and John Darling, to keep an eye on him and ensure that the trade-off proceeded according to her interests. Once they had gone, she went below to check on Macintosh, who was understandably gobsmacked to see her; he of course had not been on deck for the excitement of her return. He himself was on the mend, evinced by a return of his appetite and desire for tormenting Merida, who loudly announced that she would have been plenty happy if the fat-headed gomerel just up and died, but who had actually evidently never been far from his side. Emma smiled to herself, told him that she was pleased to see him on the road to recovery and she'd try not to let him get shot by any more angry Navy captains, and had just stepped out of the sickroom, closing the door, when someone sitting on a barrel stood up abruptly, blocking her way. It was Billy.

"Aye?" Emma said, cordial but cool. "Did you have something you wanted to say? Put your name forward for consideration as new quartermaster?"

"I'm none so sure I wouldn't end up in the sea again if I did." Strips of heavy golden afternoon sun slanted through the deck boards and cast him in odd geometries of light and shadow. "The so-called pirate ship we escaped from – not that I'm not grateful," he added dutifully, a hint of his English schoolboy upbringing, with a pair of educated and outspoken notorious printers and political pamphleteers as parents. "But after everything I already brought to your attention about how they barely seemed like pirates, you and I bloody well both know that no pirate ship fights like that. Well-drilled, regimental cannon fire according to an officer's orders? By-the-book tactical maneuvers and observance of good-form codes of nautical conduct? _Really?"_

A prickle of unease went down Emma's spine. "You challenged us to put in at Nassau, to prove our veracity," she said evenly. "We put in at Nassau. Further questions should be irrelevant."

Billy raised both eyebrows as high as they could go at her use of the inclusive plural. "Really," he said again. "Then after we got into the middle of a battle, wouldn't it have been far safer to stay on _our_ dear friend Captain Hook's ship, rather than risking the incredibly dangerous attempt to get back to the _Blackbird?_ Explain that, please?"

Emma opened and then shut her mouth. It occurred to her that while she might be trying to blackmail Flint with Billy, Billy was in turn blackmailing her, after she had blackmailed him to put him off the scent, and Killian as well. _Good God, we are a bloody treacherous pit of snakes._ She found herself thinking it was no wonder that Flint had probably literally chucked Billy off the _Walrus,_ if he had been as persistent with his suspicions of misconduct in that arena. God save William Fitzgilbert Bones the Fourth, who stubbornly continued to adhere to his belief that even in an utterly lawless and immoral environment, that was no excuse not to maintain his uncompromising notions of decency and honor, no matter the cost. As she had discovered with Liam, truly principled men were the devil of a lot more trouble than they were worth.

"Well?" Billy said, when she didn't answer. "He's either a privateer of some sort, another of the hooligans Hamilton hired to pad his own pocket, or he's something else. I think I saw him on the beach, when Hume was torturing me. He's one of them. Navy."

"He's not," Emma said. Much too quickly.

If Billy's eyebrows went any higher, they would fly off his head. "If you say so," he said, clearly meaning that he did not in the least see any reason to take her word for it. "But if so, he's the most cunning and dangerous one yet. Actually go undercover as a pirate, to scope out our defenses and capabilities and manpower, then return to spill the knowledge in the Admiralty's lap? They might have a fit first, aye, but then they'd pin a fucking medal on him and let him write a book. People would read it even more than the one by that bloody Woodes Rogers."

Emma squirmed, thinking of how she had told Killian that the guns of Nassau fort weren't strong enough to trouble the _Imperator_ on her entrance, and the other bits of sensitive intelligence he had become privy to in the course of his pirate costume-drama. She didn't _think_ he would crassly cash it in at her expense to save himself and his brother, but. . . she hadn't exactly left him on the best of terms, or with very many other options. "Billy, listen to me, it's complicated. I apologize for the deceptions, but there was a good reason for them. I was in control the entire time. I just had to get back to the _Blackbird_ and – "

"What reason?" His gaze remained unyielding. "What reason, Emma?"

 _Saving my life._ That, after all, was a major contributing factor, and might serve as fairly sufficient justification on its own. But it sounded paltry and thin and nonsensical – how could she possibly explain how merely keeping her own neck out of a noose required the entirety of this mad scheme, and how she had secured Killian's compliance? "Does it matter? It worked. I got both of us away and restored to life and liberty. Whatever sleight-of-hand it involved can be forgiven."

"Very well," Billy allowed. "We're free. So surely the next thing we do, after we sort out this godforsaken mess, is to catch them up and be sure, whatever it takes, that they don't make it back to Antigua."

"What?" Emma was shocked. "You're suggesting we attack them head-on?"

"Aye. I told you. We know bloody well what the Navy is, what Hume is, what all of them are. If our very survival means fighting them directly, then that's what we're going to have to do. And this one, he must be the worst, the – "

"You're wrong." It burned to Emma's lips before she could stop it. "Killian isn't like them. He's – he's different."

" _Killian?"_ Billy repeated disbelievingly, and she cursed herself. "So that's how this is? You're standing here vouching that a Royal Navy captain you're on first-name terms with _isn't like them?"_

"Billy, _listen._ Hume is a bloody shit, nobody denies that, but because of it, the _Scarborough_ is far more of a threat to us than the – the _Jolie Rouge._ If it's just revenge you want, and to test our mettle for matching the Navy, we should go after her. She's thirty-two guns, that's something to contend with. Start smaller, before we try to take on a third-rater _and_ all of Antigua?"

Billy continued to look at her inscrutably. Surely he could hear her trying to protect Killian as obviously as she did, must realize that he had stumbled onto a second motherlode of treasure in regard to what he could likewise leverage over her. After a moment he said, with extreme politeness, "Indeed, Captain. We'll have to think about it, won't we?"

With that, he stepped aside, and Emma darted past him, up the ladder and across the deck into her cabin, feeling very much in need of a moment alone to sit down and scream. Bloody hell, it was hard to remember why she had been so dead-set on getting back here. Money for Charles and Henry. . . one more big score. . . a home in Boston or New York or wherever else, a city where Charles could practice law, where Henry could have a future. . . she wanted it, she wanted it more than anything, but did it have to come at the cost of literally everything else?

Time went by in a blurred, sweaty, indistinct sift of sand through the great hourglass. The bloated red sun slipped away in the west, behind the low shadows of sand dunes. Will and the others weren't back yet. Christ, if Flint had been disposed to cause difficulty and object to the ruin of his carefully laid stratagems. . . no, even he would not shoot three of her men in cold blood to effectively curtail the bargain. . . but if the Spaniards had decided to try their luck. . .

Too restless to settle down, Emma went back on deck. It was full dusk, a few stars peering through the thick summer twilight and deep violet shadows lying on the mirrored ocean, when she finally saw a longboat sculling hard in their direction. This proved to contain the familiar silhouettes of not just Gaston and John Darling, but, thank God, a most ruffled Will Scarlet as well. Her crew hurried to haul the prodigals up, and the instant he toppled onto the deck with a curse, she knelt at the latter's side. "Will, what the _hell_ happened?"

He was still wheezing, but allowed her to help him up, and with a glance, signaled that this was really something to be shared in private. They retreated back to her cabin, and once she had barred the door and poured him a generous restorative ration of rum, she burst out, "Well?"

Will didn't answer, as he was occupied in tossing down the rum at a pull and immediately reaching for another. At last he came up for air, met her eyes, shook his head, and then said in an odd, almost too-offhand voice, "Gates is dead."

" _What_ the – " First Felix, now this. Quartermasters were evidently dropping like flies today, but Emma couldn't think of how on earth _Gates_ of all men, jovial, well-liked Gates, would suddenly run across a fatal circumstance aboard his own ship and expire. It just didn't make _sense._

"Aye." Evidently feeling that transferring it from decanter to goblet constituted too much of a delay, Will picked up the rum and swigged it directly. "Nobody knows what in bleeding Jesus happened exactly, but he and Flint went into the cabin together, something must have gone down, and only Flint came out. Men went in to look, there was Gates dead on the floor. Bugger's neck was broken clean."

" _Jesus."_ Emma had to sit down, which she did on the trunk. _"Flint_ killed him?" The two men were longtime friends, had sailed together almost since Flint's first establishment as a pirate captain, and Gates was one of the vanishing few who could be said to have his trust and support. Even for Flint, this was egregious, and she felt her already-waning confidence that he would never hurt _her_ taking another body blow. Miranda's protection was a strong shield, but still not entirely inviolable, and she had to fight an overwhelming urge to up anchor and sail as far away from here as possible, to run and run and never look back.

Will nodded grimly. "Unless murderous gremlins popped out of nowhere and vanished again after the dirty deed – surprised Flint didn't try to claim that they did, come to think – there aren't any other possible suspects. Well, as you might imagine, that set things totally arse-up. Place exploded. The three of us only just got away. Flint's almost certainly going to be deposed, and possibly marooned as well – this was one betrayal too far. So that means you're the king-maker."

"What?" Oh, splendid. This just kept getting better.

"I mean." Will took a slightly unsteady step, having put away most of the rum by this point. "The _Walrus_ is in chaos, and here you are, just up the coast, a pirate captain in command of her own ship again, prime to be recruited by whatever tricky cod fancies himself worthy of steppin' into Flint's boots. They'll be swarming up here before the night is through, mark me, each tryin' to win you to his side. Whoever you pick will be in the best position to come out on top. Then others are probably already jumping in the water to have a go at the treasure, and there's rumors of a Spanish man-of-war on the way here to help protect the salvagers' camp. So in short, we're fucked in every imaginable orifice, more or less. Brilliant, eh?"

Emma didn't answer, scrubbing both hands over her face. To make this (remarkably) even worse, all her plans had of course hinged upon Flint actually remaining captain and being in a position to help her, not exiled and left to die on some remote strip of sand. Much as she yearned to just let it happen, all the old reasons recommending against it still obtained. There was also nobody on the _Walrus_ whom she could count on as a new ally, especially if they wanted to emphasize a sharp contrast to Flint's regime and everyone he had done business with. He already owed her once for saving his arse against the _Imperator_ the first time, and if she contrived to help him remain in charge even after this outrage, the debt would only deepen. He himself was probably aware of this, but he likewise couldn't have many options at this point. If the contenders for captaincy would be visiting her shortly, then so would he, and she was realizing that _her_ only decent option was to back him as well. She felt rather like a starving woman who had just bitten into a juicy apple, only to find it infested with worms.

"Fuck," Emma said, considering it entirely insufficient to represent her opinions on the matter. Not wanting to ask, she said, "Brennan Jones?"

"He stayed behind." Will hesitated. "He's – he's their father, you know. The Jones lads. The one who abandoned 'em and sold 'em into servitude for a boat. He copped to it, when Flint sniffed him out. And apparently that wretched Silver bloke, he was the son of their last owner, a Captain Silver, before that one carked it in a shipwreck. He's quite bloody interested in bloody Brennan Jones now, for whatever bloody reason."

Emma shook her head, unable to repress a mounting feeling of total dread about the cliff-edge that this boulder was rolling inexorably toward. She had not met this Silver personally, but from the way first Gates and now Will talked about him, he was not a man to be trusted further than he could be thrown, and then probably not even that far. Likely also sensing an opportunity to profit from the _Walrus'_ current condition of staffing disarray, and if he moreover was aware of Brennan's connection to Liam and Killian – might even have known them in the past, if his father had owned them –

"I see," she said at last. And, rather, she did. Nothing on the horizon, the wind, the water, but smoke. Nothing but the entire world, burning.


	13. XIII

**-XIII-**

For every mile of the seemingly endless southeastern voyage, taking full advantage of a rare break in the trades to put some bloody distance between them and the skirmish, Killian's head was nothing but a dark, spinning blur. If the good wind kept up, they could make it to Eleuthera by tomorrow, but obviously they could not go straight back and free Liam from Farrowing Belchlord's tender clutches until they found somewhere to anchor, scrape off the pitch and tar on the sides, get the crew back into their uniforms, strip off his Captain Hook accoutrements and costume, and otherwise clear away the dangerous veneer of the pirate deception. There was no way to put back the name that had been chiseled off the stern, but as they after all had been in battle, he'd just have to claim that a stray volley had done for it. Turning the _Jolie Rouge_ back into HMS _Imperator_ should at least be fairly straightforward, merely reversing everything, setting it straight. _So how the bloody hell do I do it to myself?_

There was as well still the fact that Liam, while he might be somewhat recovered, would not be close to being able to take full command again; the accident had been barely a fortnight ago. He was strong and he healed quickly, but any sword-swinging, wheel-hauling, high-seas action was decidedly out. So Killian could either leave him in the hospital, or take him with them back to Antigua to confront Lord Robert Gold about the potential existence of a plot to destroy them, as well as Regina Mills' likely involvement. He for bloody certain did not want to try doing that himself, but for the first time in his life, he wasn't entirely confident that Liam would take his side. Not Gold's, of course. But Liam had never advocated upsetting the status quo, overturning the apple-cart so spectacularly, painting a target on their backs as rogues, and every other wonderful outcome that could result of accusing the Caribbean's most powerful English official of bald treachery to his face. And if Mr. Plouton _was_ there, and if Liam _had_ done something that he did not want unearthed. . . if the cost for taking down Gold, and possibly Governor Hamilton as well, was Liam's reputation and the brothers' entire relationship. . .

All of this was not even to get into the issue of Emma Swan, which Killian had been ignoring as vigorously as possible, because there was absolutely no good to come of it. She'd run the instant she had the first chance, and even knowing that was what they had planned (or she had) left a sick, sour feeling in his stomach. The more he reviewed his actions, the more he grew unconscionably disgusted with himself for being such a pathetic fool. She'd played him like a puppet on a string, and he had danced most merrily, his always-finite self control simply nonexistent where she was concerned. She was most likely back on the _Blackbird_ even now, scoffing at the gullibility of just-promoted Navy captains, enjoying the mockery she'd made of his honor and his duty. For someone who feared the loss of agency as much as Killian did, always in terror of once more having his choices taken away, it was impossible to forget or overcome. But when he'd seen that bastard Felix at the wheel, shoving her away – he had to stop him from ramming the _Imperator,_ of course, but it was the insult to Emma that made his blood boil. Until, even more easily than he had shot the guard at the slave-market, without even thinking, he did likewise. He had some vague notion it should have caused him at least an instant of moral quandary; loathsome, usurping bilge-rat or not, Felix was still a man, a free man, a pirate, the enemy of his enemies. It hadn't. And it was then, holding the smoking gun, watching him crumple, that Killian Jones discovered just what a good murderer he made.

The other pressing question was what the devil to do about Hume. He might be a brute, but he was not an idiot, and given that he was already smarting about the loss of Billy Bones, as well as chasing this newly appeared "pirate ship" for half the night, as well as already being perfectly aware that Killian did not like him nor approve of his methods, and must be highly suspicious of the convenient disappearance of the _Imperator_ at exactly the time all of this had happened. Not to mention that since Killian had intercepted the letter intended for Hume in the Governor's Harbour tavern, the one informing him of the wreck of the Spanish fleet, someone would eventually get suspicious as to why Hume wasn't doing anything about it. They would chase down the boy who had delivered it, who would protest that he _had_ given it to "Hume," only for them to realize that no, he hadn't. Three guesses as to who the first suspect would be.

 _Bugger._ At this point, Killian hopefully wondered how much more was to be lost by just shooting Hume in the head, as that had been his _mode d'emploi_ with his enemies thus far. But he was at least canny enough to realize that it would be a great deal, and his best hope was staying as far away as possible, until the _Scarborough_ got some other posting and Hume forgot about it. Unless he decided to go straight to Antigua, of course, and lodge a formal petition of complaint. Surely he wouldn't do that on rumor alone. . .? It was well out of his way, a voyage of at least a week there and back, and there were, God knew, plenty of other important things for the Navy to be doing right now. Even Hume wasn't a big enough bastard to inconvenience himself that much out of sheer spite, especially if he had found out about the Spanish wrecks some other way.

They sailed through the night, ever conscious of potential pursuit, and arrived in the northern Bahamas near dawn, Great Abaco Island and its scattering of tiny barrier islands, which rose from the sparkling blue water in thickets of green forest and sweeps of crystalline white sand. It was not far to Eleuthera from here; it was not far to Nassau either, meaning that while it would serve its purpose as a temporary stopover, they would be wise not to linger too long, lest unfriendly ships appear from either direction. They drove the _Imperator_ up into the shallows, dropped anchor, and climbed overboard with spades and levels and pickaxes, setting to vigorous work removing the tar. Someone took down the black flag and the red streamer, ran the Union Jack back up again, and the crew stripped off their pirating garb, returning to their usual grubby muslin shirts and canvas trousers. For the most part, it was done in an orderly and dutiful fashion, though a few seemed rather reluctant. No matter. At least they hadn't openly declared him a madman and pitched him to the sharks.

Alone in his cabin, Killian himself undressed slowly and silently. He remembered his transformation into Hook – their midnight expedition to acquire the clothes, Emma cutting his hair and piercing his ear, his careful application of kohl and her appreciation of the effect, what might have happened then if they hadn't been interrupted, what had most certainly happened later. Something choked cold in his chest, and he tried to shake away the memories, pulling off the coat and blouson shirt and leather breeches and fancy boots, forcing himself into his lieutenant's uniform again. The clothes felt shrunken and scratchy, as if in just a few days out of them, they had somehow contrived to lose his measure. He tried to recall the surge of pride and joy he had first felt to put them on, in the tailor's shop in Bristol where they had been sent for their new uniforms, commissions still smelling of fresh ink and sealing wax and crackling crisp in their hands. It had been his future, something he barely considered himself worthy of. Surely, then, there was no bloody good reason to feel halfway to tears at wearing it again now.

Killian did up his cravat and straightened it with a jerk. There was, obviously, no way to grow his hair back, but hopefully that wouldn't be the first thing Liam asked about. He removed the earring with a grimace, remembering what Emma had said about pirates wearing it so when their body washed ashore, they were able to pay for a decent funeral. _By that reckoning, I should just leave it in, seeing as I'm like to need one myself before much longer._

He stared at himself in the looking-glass, trying to judge if the result was suitable. He seemed, as well as he was able to recall, more or less like his former self. The eyes seemed darker, hollowed out, the brow shadowed, the lips thinner, the face older. Lieutenant Jones, perhaps, but not the Lieutenant Jones who had shipped out to the Caribbean, or even the Lieutenant Jones who had first taken over the _Imperator_ after Liam's injury. He would pass well enough at first glance, but Captain Hook still lurked just beneath, called into existence like a malevolent spirit and not so easily banished back to from whence he came. _By bell and book and candle._ If even that would be sufficient. Even far stranger and stronger sorcery might not save him now.

With a final appraisal concluded, Killian turned away and strode onto the deck, to supervise the progress of the restoration. Not as if he was really needed, but it made him feel at least marginally useful, and it was there that he was standing, staring at the blood-gold dawn, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. "Captain."

He turned with a start, and thus beheld the one person who could manage the remarkable feat of making his morning worse. He should have been at least marginally courteous, since the ship's carpenter, as a ranking officer, did have the right to converse with the captain and lieutenant as equals, and they had never taken especial note of such niceties before. But as raw and bruised as he was, and as loath at the reminder that this was the other outstanding problem he had yet to solve, what he did was growl, "The bloody fucking hell do _you_ want?"

August Booth took that with his infuriating little smirk, as if he knew far more than you did and might, if you were good, share a bit with you. In this case he probably did, which was not the panacea for Killian's badly strained temper. "Apologies for disrupting you. I was only wondering what the protocol would be, when we retrieved Captain Jones. What we were supposed to tell him about – " he cut his eyes gracefully at the sweating crewmen, scraping and laboring at their industry – "all this."

Killian sensed that this was actually a veiled reference as to how much _Booth_ might tell various _other_ people, and with that, his patience for handling this diplomatically ran out. He reached out, grabbed hold of the sneering twat, marched him backwards into the cabin, and slammed the door. "Let's not play games, shall we? It may interest you to know that I am perfectly well aware of the fact that you've been selling our secrets to Robert Gold for money. Likely since before we left England, wasn't it? So if you're under the impression that we'll get back to Antigua, and you'll run off to the governor's mansion for a quick chat and a sack of silver, you've got another _bloody_ think coming!"

Booth almost, but not quite, managed to conceal the flicker of shock that crossed his face at these words; evidently he had considered his espionage activities to be most discreet. Killian felt a grudging appreciation for Regina Mills, likely for the first time ever; he was not sure that the brothel madam had not conspired with Gold to kill him, Liam, _and_ Emma, but at least she had turned up this turd in the punch bowl. After a moment, clearly striving to regain his footing, Booth said, "Surely it's no treason to serve the Governor, is it? Aren't we all on the same side?"

"You tell me." Killian stared him down, cold and levelly. "Unless you thought there was some particular advantage in selling us out? The crew wouldn't take it well, you know. They're proud of the life they've built on this ship."

"The life you just made a fairground farce of?" Booth took a step, and Killian tensed, shifting his weight. "What else do you call taking a pirate from the Navy's lawful custody – two of them, in fact, though you were only fucking one – and letting them both escape? Is that also the action of a loyal servant of the British Crown? Please, Captain. Do enlighten me. I'm curious."

"Watch your tongue." It was even lower, fraught with very real menace, and it made even Booth hesitate slightly, though not back off completely. "Or if you wish me to act the part of a true Navy captain, I will be happy to have you flogged."

"Just the way Liam runs his ship, isn't it?" Booth, once more in possession of himself, resumed the attack. "Very well, if you'd rather keep this secret, how much are you prepared to pay me?"

"I'll start by letting you live until we get to Eleuthera. Make me a better offer, and I might even consider it to as far as Antigua."

"My life in exchange for my silence?" Clearly Booth did not consider this to be an unmissable bargain, but if there was one thing Killian knew about the bastard, it was that he would always and consistently put himself and his own interests first, and thus pointed threats to his sainted person would usually have an effect. "That's all? What if I refused?"

"Here." Killian tossed him the golden earring. "I've heard it can be used to pay for your funeral."

Booth caught it, looking briefly intimidated; evidently he had not expected Lieutenant Jones to be capable of such hard-nosed negotiation (which indeed was rather a nice word for what was currently transpiring). He considered, seemingly weighing up the odds as to whether Killian would be able to carry through on his threat, then finally said, "Very well. I won't tell Gold. In exchange, you leave me unmolested to carry on my life and my duties as I see fit."

"It won't be on this ship much longer," Killian said. "So you might want to start looking for a new one while we're docked."

"I'm a warranted officer. You can't force me off without a full tribunal, and we both know that any trial with formally presented evidence would end as badly for you as it would for me." Booth looked smug, which was Booth's usual godforsaken fucking expression. Killian's knuckles ached with the urge to punch it. "Likewise, I enjoy my life here. I'm not trading it for lashes and filth and abuse and some two-bit petty tyrant driving us before the mast. I'll stay."

"Fine," Killian snarled. "But if you cross me one more time, you'll wish you didn't."

They eyed each other malevolently a moment longer, then spat in their palms, shook hands while vigorously attempting to break the other's fingers, and turned away, exiting from the cabin and dispersing in sharply opposite directions. Yet just as he thought he had finally shot himself of interfering troglodytes, someone _else_ plucked him discreetly by the sleeve, and he nearly broke their nose, saved only by a well-timed duck on their part. "Captain! A word, that's all!"

"Sorry." Killian's rage-heated field of vision slowly cleared to reveal the purser, Mr. Hawkins, still looking wary of another attempt upon his olfactory functions. "What did you want?"

Hawkins looked to and fro, then lowered his voice. "Once we return to Governor's Harbour and take on your brother again, what are we supposed to. . . explain to him?"

Killian regarded him grimly, knowing it wasn't a good sign that he had been asked this question twice in five minutes, and now by someone he couldn't browbeat and threaten into submission as he had August Booth. The purser ranked only below the captain and lieutenants in the hierarchy of a Naval vessel, as befit the man in charge of its finances and supplies, and was in command whenever they were on shore. Hawkins had sailed with the Jones brothers nearly from the start of their careers; he was also a Bristol man, and his wife, Sarah, ran the Admiral Benbow Inn on the waterfront, where the _Imperator's_ officers usually lodged when they were in port. Thus if he was asking, it was not out of a capricious desire to cause trouble for Killian, but a very real concern as to the consequences of their recent misadventures, and how on earth to make any sense of them to Liam. Yet as that was the exact question that hung over all of this, Killian could scarcely give him any sage advice. He opened and shut his mouth.

Seeing it, Hawkins' brow furrowed. Even quieter, he said, "We have to tell him, you know."

"I – I know. We just. . ." Killian trailed off. Indeed, his secret and shameful hope was that they _didn't_ have to, and it would somehow magically evaporate into the ether before Liam got any wind of it. But even he knew this was absurdly naïve. "I'll see to it. With what I have to report to the Admiralty, they won't want to spend time on troubling us anyway."

Hawkins gave him a curious look, as obviously the information about Hamilton and Jennings' treason was not common knowledge, and nor did Killian intend it to be. It was too valuable a bargaining chip to fritter away in just anyone's hands, even Hawkins'. But after a long moment the purser said, "As you order, Captain. You would know best how to report to your brother, of course. If the men make good time in the repair, we should be underway again by noon."

"Very good." Killian made a slight motion, indicating that Hawkins was dismissed. "We'll plan on it, then."

And yet even with this done, as black chunks bobbed in the shallows around the _Imperator_ like the tailings of a coalfield, as they became ever more recognizably themselves to look at and yet ever more a stranger, Killian did not feel outstandingly reassured. The ship looked stained, diminished, still with several dark streaks on her sides no matter how hard the men scrubbed, and it felt the same way to him. As if something had been engrafted into him that could not be taken out, a signet ring stamping into hot wax, marked and branded. This felt even more like a hollow charade than playing pirate had. _But what bloody choice do I have?_ He almost wanted to cry.

As Hawkins had predicted, they managed to get back in fettle fairly quickly, keeping an edgy eye out for any sails on the horizon. This was a comparatively out-of-the-way spot, but as noted, it lay close enough to two major corridors that paths could inadvertently cross. Killian worked feverishly in his cabin, reckoning the most efficient course to Eleuthera, and hoping the trades didn't abruptly prevail again, as that could turn even the short journey into a battle. He tried to distract himself by coming up with new versions of Farquhar Buzzard's ridiculous sobriquet, and couldn't even manage that. Clearly matters were dire indeed.

When they were finished, Killian gave the order to depart, and the sailors clambered back aboard, looking like gremlins themselves after the filth and exertion of the work, though some had made a cursory effort to rinse with seawater. He told them to take an extra grog ration and a rest, utterly exhausted himself but not sure if lying in his berth with only his fractured, whirling thoughts for company was a particularly wise idea. Yet as the only other option was pacing a groove into the quarterdeck and greatly vexing Roberts, the helmsman, just trying to steer the bloody boat without a half-mad lieutenant breathing down his neck, Killian retreated inside, barred the door, and climbed into bed. He hadn't had any sleep since those few hours at Miranda Barlow's house on Nassau, and very little before that, until he wondered if he might just die of exhaustion standing up and yet have his body keep on walking, unaware that it was supposed to fall over. _At least that way they'd see that I wouldn't leave duty._

Rather to his astonishment, he fell into a deep, dreamless catatonia so profound that when Hawkins finally arrived to wake him, it must have taken enough effort to briefly make the purser fear he had accidentally died. He certainly was wearing a relieved expression as Killian peeled open his grimy eyes, swearing under his breath. "Are we bloody there yet?"

"Aye, Governor's Harbour is just a few miles ahead. Should we enter the bay, Captain?"

"I – no." In the event that their damaged reputation preceded them, he did not want to sail straight in there and give every slack-jawed halfwit along the waterfront cause to remark on the _Imperator's_ odd appearance, as well as turning themselves into a sitting duck for whichever of Hume's minions might be inclined to pay back the insult. "Take the route around the cape and anchor out of sight. We'll take the launch in to collect Liam and be on our way again as soon as we can. We need to make sure we get back to Antigua and tell our version of the story first, so anyone else will be competing against what's been previously established as the truth."

"Very good, sir." Hawkins inclined his head. "I'll hold the ship ready for your return."

Killian nodded his thanks, staggered out of his bunk and slapped himself vigorously on each cheek in a vain attempt to restore intelligent thought, then went up on deck, and collected a shore party of the men he trusted not to blurt out anything inopportune in front of his brother. He did intend to tell Liam, but carefully, and certainly not as a result of being backed into a corner. It would be good to see him again. Even this long of a separation had been strange and unnatural, in Killian's opinion. They did better together, each balancing out the other's strengths and weaknesses. They always had. Otherwise, they wouldn't have survived.

They hauled the launch into the water, clattering on its hoists, and raised the single sail. They bounced and skimmed across the darkening sea; the sun was very low in the west, and Killian doubted they'd be able to get under way again tonight. Perhaps a bit of extra time couldn't hurt in regard to scouting out how much Hume knew, if he was back yet or still chasing his tail at sea, or what else might be whispered in the tavern. Killian would, however, have to keep his head down. Just get to Dr. Buttocks' place of business, that was all. Nobody would notice him there.

They merged unobtrusively into the other small-craft traffic crossing the harbor, though it had slowed as the day's commerce drew to a close. At most ports there was a factor to collect the berthing tax and record the name and master of the vessel, and Killian kept a vigilant eye out for any such person; in a place like this, he would make half his money (if not all) from bribes and extortion. But what caught his attention instead was the faint, unmistakable whiff of decay, and his nose wrinkled. As they drew closer, he looked up at the yardarm swinging over the quays, and it was replaced by a stab of revulsion. What he had taken for bundles of rags or bales of trade goods or whatever and sundry else were none of these. They were bodies – three of them, in fact, twisting gently in the evening breeze. They hadn't been dead that long, but certainly enough to start a good reek in the hot Caribbean sun. Two men and a woman.

Killian stared up at them, feeling vaguely ill. There was always the possibility that they were petty criminals executed for some other misdeed, but even criminals were cut down after they were dead, stacked into a wagon, and dumped in a pauper's grave. There was only one conviction that saw you hanged, then left on display for at least three days – or in extreme cases, until you rotted completely away – as a stern warning to all who passed. Evidently Hume had come back here in a rage, torn through Eleuthera in search of anyone who might know anything about the mysterious pirates who had rescued Billy Bones, decided that these three had enough suspicions of nefarious doings to warrant capital punishment, and seen it carried out forthwith. Liam might have seen the whole thing unfolding from the window of his room. Executions were always a public spectacle, and something so sensational as a pirate trial would draw in looky-loos from across the island. They might have profited from a few under-the-table deals with Nassau, or they could have been innocent people caught up in witch-hunting fervor, as tended to happen with moral panics. And they had died because of what Killian had done. Because of him.

He swallowed hard, making himself look away. There was hardly anything he could do for the poor bastards at this point, after all. Just add it to the ever-lengthening tally of marks in Hume's ledger, for which he would one day answer. If there was any justice in this godforsaken hellhole of a world other than that which men made and seized for themselves, and Killian was more and more grimly certain that there was not.

They guided in, moored up, and went ashore. The port factor's office had its shutters closed, and Killian did not see any call to unsociably disturb him at the lengthening hour, so he left three silver pennies on the doorstep and hoped the man would get the picture. He had taken off his lieutenant's jacket before they left the _Imperator,_ so they looked no different from any other common sailors, and they walked out to Buzzard's premises without attracting any special attention. Killian rapped on the front door, which took a while to be answered; at last it was discovered that they had interrupted Buzzard at supper, and heaven help the heathen who thought it was decent to interrupt a man at supper, much less his following glass of sherry. An orderly let them in, but they still had to stand in the front hall for almost forty minutes until the good doctor finally consented to receive them. On sight of Killian, his sketchy brows rose across nearly the entire potential of his forehead. "Lieutenant Jones. I had not expected you again so soon."

"And I expected you sooner, rather than standing with my thumb up my arse to make sure we didn't disturb your digestion." Killian was decidedly not in the mood for this. "How's my brother?"

"He is mending well," Buzzard said. "However, my professional opinion is that he should stay here at least another fortnight. I still have to flush and clean the wound regularly, and any sustained exertion will break the sutures. If exposed to the deteriorated standard of care that prevails upon most vessels – "

"We have a very capable surgeon's mate, I assure you. And surgeon, when he's sober. Besides, the action's finished, we're bound back for Antigua. The only danger Liam will be in there is from paperwork." Or at least he bloody well hoped so. "Now _if_ you would, I'd like to see him."

Buzzard paused, then nodded, rather sniffily, and showed Killian up the stairs. He at least had the decency to dutifully withdraw, and Killian pushed through the door cautiously, the dim room lit by a candelabra on the table, and the gauze to keep out insects fluttering over the window. "Li?"

The figure in the chair started upright and turned around. He looked thinner and paler and more mortal, somehow, his cheeks and chin heavily furred with brown stubble, as it must be too painful to shave every day, but it was recognizably still Liam. Killian felt his heart give a great giddy gasping swoop of relief, like taking a breath after the deepest of dives. Liam, for his part, clearly had not expected to see him any time soon either, and his jaw dropped. _"Killian?"_

"Aye, it's me." Killian hurried to him, feeling as if he was finally safe and sane again, and they would manage everything else from here. "I'm back, and I – I have a plan to save both of us. Hamilton's a traitor and his privateer, Jennings, was trying to steal treasure for the Jacobites off the Spanish wrecks. I chased him off, we can hand both of them in, I killed the captain of the _Blackbird_ too, they have no grounds to – "

"Christ, slow _down."_ Liam looked completely bewildered by this bursting dam of an explanation. "What are you talking about? Hamilton – Archibald Hamilton who we still owe ten pounds to, the governor of Jamaica? What about Jennings? What Spanish wrecks?"

Killian realized he was not making the desirable amount of sense, and had to start again. He explained about the wreck of the treasure fleet, his dilemma in visiting the site as one Navy ship alone, and Emma's plan to disguise themselves. He cast this in the best light possible, making it sound as if it was just a splash of pitch on the hull and roughening up their look a bit, as if everyone had been on board and fully committed to the overall mission, and that indeed it had worked, as they had caught Jennings red-handed and could now see him and Hamilton formally investigated for treason. There had been some amount of a dust-up, but nothing fatal, and in the course of it, unfortunately, Emma Swan had managed to escape. (As for Billy Bones, Killian had not mentioned him at all.)

One of Liam's eyebrows rose, in the Jones brothers' silent language of skepticism. "And then you killed her?"

"I – not precisely her. The foul git who'd taken over as captain in her absence. But with this to throw in the Admiralty's laps, the unmasking of a Jacobite network at the highest levels of colonial government, it won't much matter."

Liam looked pained. "Do you have any evidence that Hamilton ordered Jennings to plunder the Spanish wrecks, in order to send the money to James Stuart?"

"Well, no, not directly, but there's no way he – "

"Do you have any evidence that Jennings is in fact directly employed by Hamilton as a privateer, and is presently operating in this capacity?"

"No, but everyone knows he is, it's not a – "

"Do you have any evidence that Jennings was in fact there to loot the wrecks and unlawfully provoke the Spanish, rather than as a fellow English agent tasked to keep order?"

"No, but why the devil else would he – "

"Then how on earth are we supposed to put together a case that holds the slightest bit of water, and wouldn't sound like desperate, ludicrous slander concocted precisely for the purposes of deflecting questions about us – or rather, you? Do you expect them to take your word for this, just because _you_ fired on Jennings while sailing under pirate colors? If you can't provide a damn good reason for it, that makes you the traitor to their eyes, not him! Jesus, Killian!"

Killian was rocked almost physically back onto his heels by the force of Liam's words. He had known he wasn't going to take it particularly well, since it was after all an idiotic idea, but he still felt as if this was at least a better chance than Liam was giving him credit for, and that since he had not officially resumed command, he, Killian, was still the captain of the _Imperator,_ and should be afforded proper consideration. "Liam, listen, I know it's a dangerous gamble, but the sinking of the Spanish fleet couldn't be planned for, and we had to do something drastic to deal with it. If we lodge an accusation, they might at least dig deep enough to uncover verifiable proof of Hamilton's treachery. Then – "

"The commodore of the fleet stationed in Antigua is, since you have apparently forgotten, also a Hamilton." Liam put his face in his hands. "Do you really think he's going to be eager to start an inquest against his cousin, the Governor of bloody Jamaica, and drag his own family name and reputation through the mud? _If_ you had compelling and concrete proof, they might be forced to hear you out. Anything less, and it will just get us court-martialed faster. Killian, _why?"_

"Forgive me for not doing it exactly the bloody way you would, Liam, but seeing as you were in recovery here and far away from the action – "

"No need to remind me – "

" – I was well within my remit to deal with the situation as I saw fit! Or is it that _you_ don't believe me either?"

"Oh, I believe you," Liam muttered exasperatedly. "This is the exact sort of thing you'd think was a brilliant idea."

"I meant about Hamilton and Jennings."

"I have no doubt they are up to their own agendas. I am rather less certain that any good can come of sticking our noses in it."

"We're fucked if we don't do something. I know it may not be what you want to hear, but the high road of noble self-sacrifice, while letting them walk all over us, isn't a bloody option."

Liam blinked, as Killian had never spoken that directly or that vehemently to him before. He sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Then he said, "Fine. Here's what we'll do. I'll say that you undertook this entire pirate pretense on my orders, to lure them and gain their trust, to get out to the wreck site without being ambushed, and so forth. I'll also back your story that while you were there, Jennings arrived and opened fire. That won't be enough to convict him – all he has to do is plead that he, quite reasonably, mistook you for a pirate – but it might be enough to get them asking a few questions about why, in fact, he _was_ there. If they see you and the _Imperator_ returned and in proper Navy rig again, they can't claim that you took the opportunity to actually turn pirate yourself. There will certainly be a few members of the Admiralty impressed with your creativity and initiative, even if they can't openly say it. So as far as it goes, you may be right. We could get out of this."

Killian let out a shaking breath. "Thank you. Liam, thank you. I know I've put our backs against the wall, but if we go in united, we'll win, we always have – "

Liam held up a hand. "Just one condition."

"Aye?"

"You said you killed the captain of the _Blackbird._ But you didn't kill Emma Swan. I'm not blind, Killian. I saw the effect she had on you. Yet even you admit that she has chosen her own fate, voluntarily deciding to return to piracy, rather than staying with the Navy, reforming her ways, and cooperating with us in hopes of earning a pardon. If and when she is caught again, that will be the first thing they make note of. In no imaginable circumstance will they then allow for mercy in her sentencing, or for her to escape the noose. She _will_ hang, and you almost surely will have to watch it. Any attempt to interfere in any way will get you convicted of treason by association, and then you will hang too. And if that happens, there is nothing I can do to save you. So please." Liam's voice had gone rough, and he knuckled his hand across his eyes. "That's my condition. Promise me that no matter what, I will not have to watch you die on the end of a noose and left to rot like those bodies over the harbor. Promise me, Killian."

Killian was briefly mute. God knew he didn't want to make Liam watch him die either, not least because he would be getting the permanent end of the bargain in that case. And Liam was, of course, correct that Emma had forsaken any hope of lenient future treatment, or tender consideration of her gentle sex, the instant she jumped off the _Imperator_ with Billy bloody buggering bastard Bones. Yet even knowing it, knowing that she had played him for a fool, and that even if she hadn't, their account was square – she'd saved him in the slave market, he'd saved her from Felix, they owed each other nothing more – he still knew that he wouldn't be able to watch her hang. Couldn't even manage it in absentia. Just couldn't.

And yet. This was the only plan they had, and he needed Liam's support. Much as the Admiralty might regard the Jones brothers askance, they had to at least admit that Liam was a very capable and much-respected captain, whose word would hold significant weight, whereas Killian had always been regarded as the powder keg-in-waiting and damaged goods that they were unavoidably lumbered with. He had gotten this reputation by punching in the nose the first other lieutenant they tried to post with him and Liam – one of the arrogant stuffed-shirt sons of the gentry whose rich father had bought him his commission as a birthday present, who did not know the first bloody thing about seamanship and who looked sneeringly down on the Jones' lowborn _Irish_ gutter-scum origins (only to Killian, of course; to Liam he was an obsequious, brown-nosing suck-up). Once might have been excused, only it happened again with the next (equally insufferable) lieutenant that the Admiralty tried to assign in his place. After that, letting the Jones brothers command their ship by themselves was agreed to be the sensible decision, but one which had left hard feelings and dangerous whispers in its wake. And so, if Killian waltzed in with this plan by himself, he was doomed. Emma had betrayed him and left him behind. He was done with her. It was Liam who his future lay with, as always. Liam who mattered more.

"Aye," he said, barely more than a whisper. "I promise."

Liam let out a slow breath and half-smiled, barely seeming to relax very much. "I swear I've aged twenty years this past fortnight, worrying about you. Buzzard's no basket of roses either – he has the personality of a box of rocks, frankly – but he _is_ quite a good physician."

"I paid him enough, he'd better be." Killian grinned wanly back, reaching out to clasp Liam's hand. Then he hesitated, decided he had to do something about it just to prove to Emma how wrong she was, and said, "So, I was just. . . just thinking. If there was anything I should ever know about our past, you – you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

Liam looked startled, and rather wary. "What? What about our past?"

"I don't know." Killian shrugged self-consciously. "Just, well. If I should."

"Of course I would," Liam said, after a brief and almost imperceptible hesitation. "Just as you did. I promise."

 _There,_ Killian thought vindictively. _So much for your lies. Now go away, Swan. We're finished._

 _Go away._

* * *

They made plans to set out in the morning. If Buzzard had his way, of course, Liam would have stayed, but Killian did not want to leave him here, completely undefended and conveniently available for kidnapping, in the event that Hume decided to use him to twist Killian's arm. Liam's shoulder was still balky to say the least, but he wouldn't have to do anything excessively effortful for the trip back to Antigua, and he'd have time to recover there. Once they accused Hamilton and Jennings, they might wind up on the beach longer than expected, tied up in legal proceedings, claims and counter-claims. Even more horrifyingly, Buzzard said he had a brother who was a solicitor in St. John's, raising the dread possibility that they would have to deal with _two_ members of the family. (His name was apparently the much more prosaic Edward, leaving Killian to wonder what exactly had possessed the Buzzard parents to inflict their other offspring with "Farquhar.") The end of summer was also when the important officials who had business back in England departed the Indies, as considering the two-month voyage and the advent of the autumn storms, it was felt unwise to leave any later than the middle of August. That might also hinder the hearing of the case, not that this was going to make them outstandingly popular with Commodore Hamilton either. Unless he already had his own suspicions about his cousin's loyalty, and was going to use this opportunity to make a clean break. No reason, after all, to go down with Lord Archibald's ship.

Killian actually slept well that night, as he always did with Liam around, an old reflex from the days when he knew that if he was left alone in the darkness below decks, somebody might try to hurt him. There were certain men who considered a pretty little boy an acceptable substitute for the female company they lacked, and if they got the chance, would put him to use accordingly. It had never happened to Killian, because of the fact that Liam slept every night next to him, or if he was up late on watch, told Killian to hide in the bulkhead until he could get down to him. Even if not sodomy, plenty of the sailors would kick or cuff or otherwise pick on him for sport, when it was late and cold and they were in their cups, far out to sea with nothing better to do and no hope of port for another fortnight, having suffered all day under the captain's rod and looking for someone to vent their spleens on in turn. Even now, as an adult more than capable of protecting himself, Killian still did not sleep entirely easily without his brother nearby.

They woke before the sun, rolling out of bed stiff and groggy, and Killian helped Liam shave and dress. They paid Buzzard an extra few shillings to keep his mouth shut, collected the men, and headed back to the docks. A thick, stifling summer fog lay over the water, dense as sheep's wool, leaving them briefly uncertain of the wisdom of setting out; with the visibility this poor, they might accidentally sail straight past the _Imperator_ and into open sea. But as they also did not want to wait until the entire morning crowd could witness their departure at their leisure, they decided to risk it. Killian was mostly certain he remembered the general outlines of the route they had taken in, and could retrace it back.

They did in fact make it to the ship, though they nearly overshot it the first time and had to circle back around. Killian was grateful that the mist prevented Liam from seeing the worst of the scars and stains. This ship was the first real home they had ever had, and for all their clashes with the navy, both of them loved it beyond words. Killian did not want to look as if he had been careless with it, and indeed he was rather proud of the old girl for how well she had stood up to her change in assignment. Plenty of other warships – and captains – would have floundered woefully under the vastly different style of sailing and fighting required, but the two of them had done all right together. He patted her timbers affectionately as they stepped onto the deck, to be greeted with a hearty cheer from the crew on sight of Liam. Liam himself waved and smiled graciously, clasping hands and accepting well wishes, clearly favoring his bandaged shoulder but otherwise looking at least somewhat steadier. Then, as the fog still meant they had to wait to set sail, he and Killian retreated into their cabin, and he sat down in the chair with a deep sigh. "I think I'm actually almost looking forward to getting back to that rat's nest. It should at least be. . . interesting."

"Aye." Likely far too bloody so. Killian carefully avoided looking at the table, lest this conjure unwelcome memories of him and Emma coupling on top of it. He likewise had said nothing whatsoever to Liam about _that_ little aberration, or its predecessor in Miranda Barlow's spare bedroom. "Hopefully this murk clears up soon and we can be on our way."

"Mercury's rising. Should be fair before much longer." Liam shifted his arm and grimaced. "So, now that things are back as they should be, it's time for me to resume control. Don't you agree?"

"Oh – aye." Killian pushed away the brief, faint sting of jealousy that did not want to give up the captaincy – not even to Liam, who rightfully held it. "Of course. I formally return command of HMS _Imperator_ to you, Captain Jones."

"Very good, Lieutenant Jones." Liam smiled crookedly at him, and Killian couldn't help returning it, able to enjoy the delight of these words for once and not regard them as grim and servile bondage. "Out of curiosity, what did you call her as a pirate vessel?"

Killian coughed. "The, ah, the _Jolie Rouge._ I didn't have time to think of anything more outstandingly clever."

"The _Jolie Rouge,"_ Liam mused. "I suppose I can see it. And who were you?"

Killian's hesitation was slightly longer this time. "Hook," he said. "Captain Hook."

At that, Liam looked at him sharply, evidently catching quite well onto the fact that this had not been a mere costume of convenience, and was something still dangerously close to him, dug into his flesh. Killian gritted his teeth and braced for another speech on law and order and justice, of making good choices, of everything Liam had tried for so long to impress on him, everything he tried so hard but seemed as if he could never quite grasp. Like a blind man feeling the sun on his face, but unable to see its light or knowing just what it was, always reaching for it, reaching, but never able to catch the beams that flitted away. But instead his brother sighed again, slow and sad-sounding. "Killian," he said quietly. "Come here, eh?"

Killian blinked, then moved cautiously toward him, sitting on the floor in front of Liam and resting against his knees. Liam reached down to tousle his shorter hair, hugging his head lightly with his good hand. "The new look suits you," he said. "Less trouble to keep out of your eyes too, when you're fighting. I might do the same."

"Really?" Killian looked up at him, surprised, having expected Liam to disapprove of that too. "You like it?"

"Aye, I do. Helps me see you as the man you are, and not the little boy I always have in my head. I'm sorry I've been so hard on you recently, Killian. But this place, and its dangers, and everything we've – "

"No, don't apologize. You've had good reason. You've been right, you know. About me being reckless and not thinking, and the danger I've put us in. But this is our chance to wipe the slate clean, and we'll do it. We'll put all this behind us."

"Aye," Liam agreed. "We will. And I'll see about getting us a new posting. Somewhere in the American colonies, perhaps. I've heard good things about Boston's prospects. It may not be exciting as this – " he flashed a wry smile – "but it's safer. We'll have a real home soon, I promise. We can't stay in the Navy forever, after all."

 _A real home._ Killian took a moment to consider both the promise and the peril of those words. He had begun to fear that he had only two choices – to live in the Navy, or die as a pirate, neither of which were very appealing. But if there was another way out, a life where this was over, something that could be counted on beyond the next wave, the next voyage, the next storm. . .

Briefly, he wondered how they would get enough money to be able to settle down, if they would find new employment in the Boston shipyards, if they would have to give up the _Imperator_ to some other master who would be far less good for her. _Don't be ridiculous. She's just a ship._ But still. He wanted to say that he didn't need a house in Boston, however nice it sounded. He just needed Liam, the _Imperator,_ and the open sea. Land could wait a while yet.

However, he didn't. He just settled against Liam's knees again, abjectly grateful to be loved and forgiven, rather than reprimanded and held at arm's length. Aye, he might have made a long list of mistakes leading up to this point, but now he would really fix them. Then the weight would be off his heart, the shadow off his horizon. A bright day ahead.

Soon.

* * *

As Liam had predicted, the weather began to freshen near midday, the fog blowing off as they raised sail and started the journey to Antigua. The wind was strong, and they made good time, Killian stripped to his shirtsleeves on the sun-drenched deck, the taste of salt on his lips and the sea the same incandescent blue as the sky, sparkling like a many-faceted opal with its flecks of gold and crystal and fire. At one point a friendly pack of porpoises came to frolic alongside, jumping and splashing, as the shapes of other fish flitted and darted beneath the waves, and the men threw lines to catch them – seafood was always good eating and a welcome respite from the usual drudgery of shipboard fare. The _Imperator_ was running nearly full canvas, and she made a majestic sight, until Killian's heart swelled with the pride of loving her. No home in Boston could do this, could go where she pleased and see the entire world, unbound, unfettered, free. With Liam back at his side and the worst of their estrangement mended, Killian felt better than he had in weeks, fresh and hopeful. He had never asked for much, not really. Just a little trust, love, kindness, belief. With it, he would flourish, would grow.

He was in a good enough mood, in fact, to almost forget about Emma for the time being, which must be a first. They sailed all day and into the hours of darkness, since the sky was clear and the stars were brilliant, and after a dinner of fresh fish and hours of sunlight and fresh air and wind, not to mention Liam, Killian actually had his second night of restful sleep in a row, which was likewise a record. By the time another crystalline, cloudless dawn began to break, he was feeling almost a new man.

It was quite a way, almost a thousand miles south and east in the Caribbean Sea, and even the best conditions meant the trip would take at least three days. Killian did not mind, as he was taking full advantage of the opportunity to breathe and piece himself back together. Liam was in a good temper as well, albeit having to suffer Hopper poking about his shoulder every evening to be sure the wound was still healing cleanly. He carefully exercised it, making sure he hadn't lost too much of his strength, and by the time they came in sight of St. John's two evenings hence, both the Joneses were feeling game for the challenge. Indeed, Killian almost wanted to rush to Gold's mansion as soon as they landed and throw down the gauntlet, but Liam thought they should do it properly, in visiting hours the next morning. There could be no hint of impropriety or underhanded arrangements about the whole affair. They must not act as if they had anything whatsoever to hide.

They sailed in and moored up, allowing the crew leave to go ashore and heading for Mr. Shaw's lodging-house and tavern, where they had taken a room the last time. Across the rooftops, Killian could see the red lamp swinging before Regina Mills' place of business, hear distant talk and laughter, and wondered if this reckoning would also involve forcing the madam to own up to whatever devious role she had played in the whole affair. He still was no more certain about why she wanted Emma dead, or if she was willing to let Gold destroy him and Liam to do it. Was that what happened to the other captains she had sent after the _Blackbird?_ Gold's enemies for one reason or another, obstacles to his plans or merely men he didn't like, likely either to die on the pursuit or come back in failure and with a ready-made excuse to boot them out of the Navy in disgrace? They must be in it up to their ears together, Regina and Lord Robert. Christ, what a matched pair of snakes.

Killian and Liam were both washing the dust off and thinking of supper when, unexpectedly, there was a knock on the door, startling them. Killian opened it to see the same servant who had brought the invitation for them to have supper with Gold and Plouton before they left, and felt abruptly as if he'd missed a step going downstairs. "Can I help you?"

"Captain and Lieutenant Jones? Lord Robert Gold requests the honor of your presence, at once."

"We just got in. We'll attend him in the morning."

"This evening, I am afraid. He was most insistent." The servant smiled apologetically. "He has also instructed me to say that no amount of money will suffice to change his mind. If you could please come with me? This shouldn't take long."

Killian and Liam frowned at each other. They did not have much choice, however, but to shrug back into their sweat-soaked uniforms and grubby boots, before following the servant into the darkening warrens and up the hill to the gated governor's villa. There were several horses tied at the hitching post outside, suggesting that Gold had other guests, and Killian's vague feeling of foreboding grew exponentially stronger. Whatever this was, he didn't bloody like it.

They were conducted inside, across the courtyard, and through a rushlit cloister to the garden at the back of the house, where there was a covered veranda for the governor to work outside the stuffiness and sweat of his main office. Voices drifted out of it, and as they climbed the steps and the servant pushed the door open, Killian had a split-second, horrible intuition of just who might have outraced them back to Antigua, with a lighter and faster ship, no need to stop over at Eleuthera, and a pressing need to make sure the high command heard his story first. No, not –

"Good evening." Sleek and self-satisfied as a cat in cream, Lord Robert Gold stood up and smiled at them. "How kind of you to attend so promptly. Gentlemen, I believe you will know our visitors, but in the event a refresher is needed, may I present Captain Liam and Lieutenant Killian Jones. Officers, or so one previously thought, of His Majesty's Royal Navy."

Killian's stomach, already in freefall, accelerated as he took in the sight of Gold's companions, sitting around the table with cups of tea placed on porcelain saucers, stirred with silver spoons. If there had ever been a more evil-omened gathering, he hoped never to see it. A tall, thin man he didn't know, with flaming ginger hair and a stylish blue cravat. Captain James Nolan, dear God. The very man he had spied on the deck of the other ship, with the fair hair and frozen eyes: Henry Jennings. And – last but certainly not least – August bloody Booth. All of them were staring at the Joneses with barely concealed delight.

A horrible feeling of something close to surreality came over Killian, as he understood. "You bastard," he croaked at Booth. "You fucking bastard. You _promised."_

"I'm sorry." August shrugged, with apparently genuine apology. "I'm afraid I lied."

Liam was looking wildly back and forth between them, not understanding what their carpenter was doing there among this confederation of malefactors – then, as his gaze fell on the man in the blue cravat, he went very still. Killian felt everything somehow becoming even worse, as it further struck him who that must be. "Mr. Plouton, is it?" he said. "Fitting company for you."

"Bravo." The assurance agent clapped. "Well done. You'll be familiar with my handiwork, then?"

"Leave him out of it." Killian could see the whites of Liam's eyes starting to show. "Whatever the hell you want from us, Plouton, I'll pay it."

"Oh, you already did." Plouton's green eyes glittered. "Quite well, if I recall. Tell me, did you ever let your little brother in on that nasty secret? No? I thought not."

"What's he talking about? Liam?" Killian stared fearfully at his ashen-faced brother. "Liam?"

"No," Plouton confirmed, looking gleeful. "This is going to be _such_ a fun evening."

"Indeed." Gold could barely contain his own grin. "I can barely decide where to start. Captain Jennings, can you confirm this is the pirate you exchanged gunfire with, at the Spanish wrecks?"

"I can." Henry Jennings stood in a swift, feline movement, knocking the table and making the cups rattle, those icy, dead eyes fixed unswervingly on Killian. "That's him, all right."

"And as Mr. Booth confirmed all the other details, we have no call to doubt your word. So, seeing as that's the case – "

"You bastard!" Killian roared at August. _"You fucking bastard!"_

"It's for your own good." August looked at him defiantly. "One day you'll thank me for this."

"Betraying me, stabbing me in the back, and destroying my life is for my own good?" Killian could barely see through the red haze. "I should have killed you when I had the chance!"

"See," James Nolan said. "Just as I told you. Unbalanced. I have already informed the governor as to the proposition Lieutenant Jones made to me, offering to split the _Blackbird's_ treasure haul in half shares with me, if I supported his insurrection against the Admiralty?"

"That's not what bloody happened! _You_ manipulated _me,_ you wanted the money for doing none of the fucking work – "

Gold sighed. "Please try not to keep lying, Lieutenant. It isn't doing you the slightest bit of good. We have sworn testimonies from Captain Nolan, Captain Jennings, and Mr. Booth. They are, I assure you, quite damning. I know everything you've done, you see. I know you are a traitor, a pirate, a faithless, violent, uncontrollable rogue, a loose cannon and a mad dog. Do you know what we do to mad dogs?"

"No!" Liam lunged in front of Killian, spreading his arms to shield him. "He only did what I told him to do! It's me you want. It's my fault. Take me!"

"Oh," Gold said. "We're getting there. Even if I know that everything you just said is a total lie, you have your own crimes to pay for. As our good friend Mr. Plouton says, you never did tell your adoring little brother, did you? What a shame that after all your effort and sacrifice, he ended up such a wastrel anyway."

"Tell me what?" Killian's voice cracked. "Liam, I don't care, just – tell me what?"

"About how you got out of slavery." Plouton smiled. The flames of hell seemed to be reflected in his face, gaunt and devouring. "About how he agreed to sabotage the _Benjamin Gunn_ for me, to see that it sank, and Captain Silver and his crew all drowned. In exchange, I gave him the money to pay off the remainder of your bond and buy your Navy commissions, as well as that everything was smoothed over so the local Admiralty board wouldn't ask any questions about taking on two slaves. He might not have had to do that if you hadn't gotten drunk and gambled away your savings, eh? But he did. No wonder he was too ashamed to tell you, about what your weakness forced him to do."

Killian felt as if he had just been hit very hard in the chest, and the stomach, and the head. He was sickened, reeling. He clutched at Liam's arm. "No. Tell me it isn't true. I know it isn't true. Liam. Liam, please!"

Liam's face was the color of bad milk. He couldn't meet Killian's eyes.

"You. . . you killed them? All of them? Or at least let them drown? And gave me endless lectures this entire time about how we could only follow the _honorable_ path?" Killian choked on the word. "You let me think you could never do anything wrong, that it was only me who struggled with the darkness? Why – didn't – you – _tell –_ me? I could have helped! I would have understood! I would have at least known that you would burn down the world to save me, and never wondered this entire time if I was good enough! But you didn't trust me, did you? You've never trusted me! You've never listened to me!"

"Killian, I – " Liam reached for him, desperate. "Killian, everything I've done, my entire life, has been for you, for us, for our future – "

Killian ripped away from him. Furious tears were starting to well up, despite his best efforts. Plouton was laughing, Nolan was smirking, Jennings was clearly in his element, even August looked faintly amused. Fuck them. Fuck them all. Fuck them to a thousand fucking hells. He actually could feel his entire life crumbling around his ears, down and down and down. Could barely stand, felt his spine snapped, his knees going out, locked them. Down and down and down.

"So," Gold said. "It goes without saying that your careers are, of course, over. Lieutenant, you will provide us with everything you know on Nassau, the pirates' defenses and capabilities and weaknesses, and you may get off with being thrown into prison for the rest of your life. Captain, well, the mob does have to have a show, and it will prove to everyone that there is no such thing as a good man, that you were as cruel and corrupt as the rest of them. You, I am afraid, will hang."

Killian felt as if the world was moving slowly, so slowly, as if Gold's words were hammers struck one by one on an anvil. As if everything had whirled to an unbearable pitch – and then, silence. Clarity. Conviction.

He lifted his head, and grinned maniacally.

"Fuck you," he said, and spat in Gold's face.

The governor took it without flinching, before removing a lacy handkerchief to dab it away. He gestured to Jennings. "He's elected for the hard way."

The privateer stood up. Stepped around the table, unsheathing his knife. James Nolan got up as well, came around the other side, surveyed Killian critically, then drew back a fist and punched him in the belly.

Killian buckled, struggling in vain not to double up, as Nolan seized hold of his arms and yanked them straight. Liam was yelling, swearing madly somewhere behind them, as Jennings touched the edge of his blade to Killian's left wrist, an artisan deciding where to dip his brush and make the first stroke. He considered a moment more. Then his grin turned feral.

"Hook, eh?" he said, raised the knife overhead, and with all of his strength, slashed down.


	14. XIV

**-XIV-**

"Believe me," Flint said, his face looking queerly disembodied in the candlelight, floating in the shadows like a brazen head, to prophesy or to portend doom. "I did not want to kill Gates. I regret the necessity with every part of me. I never meant it to go that far. Never."

"You regret the necessity." Emma sat back in her chair, scraping her hair off her neck and into a tangled knot – even this late at night, the heat had not relented in the slightest. "Most well-adjusted people would have a different choice of words in regard to murdering their closest, and indeed possibly only, friend. Another casualty of your own lies and manipulations? Why should I support you for a return to captaincy, if I damn well might be next in line? You've made this bed, James. I am more than bloody tempted to let you lie in it."

If Flint flinched, or was surprised at her use of his given name, he didn't show it. He passed a hand over his face, reaching for the rum bottle, but Emma pulled it away. This was her decanter of the fine Jamaican stuff, stolen off a trading cog a few months ago, and she did not intend to let Flint drink it all up before he gave her a few straight answers. This was the rare circumstance where he might actually be forced to be honest, or at least less deceitful than usual, as he knew she could throw him straight to the wolves if she didn't hear something she liked. Considering that, she also knew that he would say anything, very little or none of which he might have any intention of following up on. Will had once remarked that dealing with Flint was like trying to pin a greased weasel to a wall by throwing knives at it, blindfolded, from ten feet away, all the while with the knowledge that if you missed, the weasel would leap at you and bite your ballocks off. Emma obviously lacked certain bits of anatomy to make the metaphor completely accurate in her case, but she had never had cause to quibble with the rest of it. His grief at killing Gates seemed genuine enough, but that was hardly a mark in his favor. If anything, it proved that the monster ran even deeper in the man that she had accounted for, and that was quite a deal.

"I would deserve it," Flint acknowledged, after a moment of seeing she was not going to let him have the rum. "I don't deny that. But you and I – we're natural partners, Emma. We would make a formidable coalition. You would be my equal, with a full share in every decision and every prize, and the men would follow your word as much as mine. More, likely. You couldbe a pirate queen, the lady of Nassau and the ruler of these waters. It's still possible."

"Natural partners? I thought we only warily tolerated each other for Miranda's sake." However much Emma might ultimately need Flint herself, she was not about to make it easy for him, or reveal the fragility of her own position. "You've certainly never been in a hurry to stretch out your neck on my behalf. I am grateful for what you did in helping me become part of this world in the first place, to be sure. But that is long in the past. It has no bearing on the future."

"It can." Flint's ringed fingers clenched on the arms of his chair. "This could be an opportunity to start over. That's the problem with pirates, Emma. Nobody can see beyond the end of their own nose, whatever petty little problem they have because they'd rather drink and fuck and fart away their short-term gains, rather than pulling together and standing as one. This could be a country of its own, you know. I know I've gone too far in pursuit of the Spanish gold. I know my methods have been. . . controversial. But it is the only way we can possibly build a future."

"There's no future on Nassau," Emma said. "We all know that. That's why you haven't been making many friends recently. The pirates aren't going to suddenly form into a well-drilled army and be able to resist the full might of the British Crown when it comes – which it will, you know that. You can steal all the money and make all the speeches you like. It's still not going to work. Everyone here wants to get their hands on what they can, then run. It's temporary. It will fade."

"I don't accept that." Flint's eyes were two pits of onyx. "It doesn't have to."

Emma regarded him for a long moment. She didn't know everything about Flint's past, but Miranda had told her some of it, and she sensed something raw here, too close to the surface – which, unsettlingly, reminded her too much of Killian. "I know you were in the Royal Navy," she said. "I know your enmity with England is personal. That it's what's driving you now in this pipe dream of Nassau becoming its own principality, with two world empires content to just let it exist in the middle of its rich waters and take whatever they can. Neither England nor Spain will let us live, and you've made it worse by what you've done. Not better. That doesn't look a wise wager to me. I've already had at least two other contenders here, promising friendship and cooperation and good pickings if I support them for captain of the _Walrus._ Pretty words, same as yours, but I've had the chance to test your word before. I often find it lacking."

Flint rubbed a hand over his ginger beard, as if to conceal an expression half smile and half savage. "Once more," he said, "I deserve that. But of all the captains on Nassau, you're the only one I can see myself in long-term alliance with, and that, I swear, is God's own truth. Fuck knows it wouldn't be that frothing bastard Vane, or that fat coward Hornigold, or any other of the blinkered small-timers who wear a feather in their hat and call themselves a swashbuckler. I respect you, Emma. You know that."

"Your offer would have been much more compelling a day ago, or if Gates was still alive tonight." Emma poured herself a few fingers of rum, still keeping it just out of his reach. "Seeing as he was your surrogate captain for my ship, and nominally your second-in-command. If we're in the business of survival, why would I shackle myself to you?"

"It was a mistake," Flint said. "One which, as I said, I would give anything to have back. But you, Emma – for better or worse, you know who I am. Nothing I could do would surprise you."

"This did."

"Aside from that."

"Gates knew you too. Did that save him?"

"I went too far." Flint looked haggard, older, hounded and weary. "I was in the wrong, and I will never quite know what possessed me. It does, though. It always does. Men like me cannot always be sure what the beast will do, when it is given rein. It does not excuse my actions. But it would not be you. It would never be you. You are the daughter Miranda never had. She loves you, and as I said, I respect you. You're safe from me, I promise."

Emma tried to keep her expression neutral, though in fact these words affected her more than she wanted to let on. It was just like Flint to try to use their mutual bond with Miranda to his advantage, feeding her soothing reassurances that Miranda did indeed hold deep motherly feelings for her, the lost, orphaned girl who had not mattered to anyone for years and years. It wasn't that she doubted Miranda – only that she, as always, very much doubted Flint. There was a ring of honesty in his voice that she wasn't accustomed to, but she still wasn't going to hang her hat on that alone. She also had a feeling that she knew another man quite like him, a man not always sure what the beast would do however hard he tried to hold it back, and pushed away the thought. Killian Jones was long gone, she would never see him again. Probably en route to Antigua by now, considering himself well shut of her and her dangerous siren's ways. Do whatever he was planning to do with Jennings, and (she hoped, at least) get his life back. Something good had to come for him, after everything.

"I do want to support you," she said, mostly truthfully. "But at this point, I'm not sure anyone could force the _Walrus'_ men to take you back, short of strapping you to the deck and standing over you with a musket. You lost their trust. That won't be won back by me putting my chips on you. If you want to be their captain again, you'll have to show them it's still worth their while."

"It had occurred to me." Flint's eyes remained on her. "Yet while I am doing so, I will be in a tenuous position. That is where I could use your support."

"I'm not going to be seen propping you up while you scramble for a quick fix, making it up as you go along. Give me your plan, now, and we'll bargain."

"The Spanish wrecks are still here. There's a good deal of treasure washed up on the beach. We could launch a raid and grab a nice bit of it, without having to go to the effort and trouble of diving the sunken ones. If I get them the money I promised, I think you'll agree that would go a long way toward making up for my previous – "

"I have Billy Bones," Emma said.

That took Flint like a brick in the face. He blinked, once and then twice, looking as if he wanted to ask her to repeat it in case he misheard, and hoped very much that he had. "You what?"

"I have Billy Bones," Emma repeated. "He was 'rescued' by none other than our friend, Captain Hume, and taken to be tortured on Eleuthera. He was then actually rescued by a new associate of mine. But in the course of the battle, we became separated, and had no choice but to make it back to the _Blackbird_. He's here, though. May even stand for my new quartermaster, after Felix was likewise killed – though unlike you, I didn't do it myself. And has an interesting tale about how you either let him go overboard, or actively pushed him, after he had begun to question your decisions and motives in the course of hunting the slaver _Andromache_ for its extra guns."

Flint still didn't have anything glib to fire back, which was surely unprecedented. After a moment he said, "If Captain Bryson had merely handed them over when he was supposed to, we wouldn't have had to go on that fool's errand in the first place. And likewise, I – "

"Never wanted anything to happen to Billy?" Emma completed. "Just as you never wanted anything to happen to Gates? Until it became unavoidably necessary for your own ambition that it did?"

The fearsome Captain Flint might actually have squirmed in his seat. Just slightly, for half a second, but she was quite sure it was there. Realizing at least that he could not trade on Miranda Barlow to get out of this, and was going to have to put some actual meat into his next offer if he did not want to be packed off the _Blackbird_ to whatever midnight lynch mob may well await him back on the _Walrus._ Finally he said in a terse, clipped tone, "Very well. What do you want?"

"Now that's more like it." Emma drained her rum and set it aside. "First, we will in fact enter into compact as allies, complete with my support for your restoration, _if_ you and the men can retrieve a decent amount of the Spanish treasure you've been promising everyone. That's your affair to arrange, not mine, as it's your plan and pet enterprise. After that – " She hesitated. "Then we can talk about plans for Nassau. We could even rule it, in a triumvirate with us and Eleanor." In fact, she was far from sure about this, and had no particular desire to be sovereign lady of the place, but Flint wasn't the only one who could dangle honeyed lures to get what he wanted.

Flint's eyes flickered like a hungry wolf's, sizing up the taste of the raw meat. He turned his head slightly, as if to conceal an appraising smile. Probably thought that reclaiming power was almost at his fingertips, and it would be no great labor to grasp it firmly again. "That is a tempting offer," he allowed. "Anything else?"

"Indeed." Here came the delicate part. "I have recently come into intelligence that suggests the governor of Jamaica is, in fact, a secret Jacobite and a traitor to the crown. One Lord Archibald Hamilton."

"Lord _Archibald_ is a trai – " She had undeniably gotten his attention with that. He snapped as taut as a shoreline lashed to a bollard. "Lord Archibald _Hamilton?"_

"So far as we can tell, yes." Emma looked at him levelly. "We have no solid proof, but it could be acquired. Or we could sail to Jamaica and. . . make friends with him. If we were prepared to swear our loyalty to James Stuart and join the Jacobite cause, even nominally, Lord Archibald would find it extremely valuable to court our support – especially if we could present ourselves as a united faction, two powerful pirate captains on Nassau with significant sway on its politics. We could build the realm you dream of with England's own money. Yet the catch, of course, is that it would require you to enter into commerce and alliance with a Hamilton."

Flint's eyes were slits of green ice. "And what," he enquired, deceptively cordial, "would you know, exactly, of my dealings with the family?"

"Not everything." Emma shrugged. "Miranda has told me, however, that her first husband was one Lord Thomas Hamilton, and the three of you were. . . close friends. You were a young Royal Navy lieutenant working with Lord Hamilton, in London, to propose a universal pardon for pirates, at the very beginning of the republic ten years ago. But this was a deeply unpopular move to start with, and when it backfired, the fallout destroyed your lives. Thomas was committed to a mental asylum by his father, where he died, and you and Miranda fled here."

Flint was very still, a jungle cat in the trees, watching its prey with burning amber eyes and calculating the exact moment of its pounce. Deciding to take pity on him, Emma handed over the rum bottle, and he poured a few fingers, then knocked it back without a word. After a moment he said, clearly striving for his usual cool air of command, "That is more or less the essence of it, yes. Thomas was a man of visionary and idealistic principles, who believed passionately that you would not stamp out piracy by hanging every man who dared to search for a better life outside the confines of a cruel and unjust system. The project of a universal pardon was very much what he intended to be his legacy. More fool the rest of us, for thinking such mercy was possible."

Emma winced despite herself. She and Flint might be sitting here manipulating the bejesus out of each other, but she could hear the raw and completely unfeigned note of loss and grief in his voice when he spoke of Thomas Hamilton. Stating the obvious, she said, "It never came about."

"No," Flint said bitterly. "The Admiralty was quite convinced that it was halfway to treason to suggest sparing the lives of anyone so unconscionably ill-mannered as to rise up against the British Crown. As you note, this was a decade ago, when the pirates' republic was nothing more than a few squatters on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Nothing near as powerful and far-reaching as it is today. I suppose we can thank the Admiralty for their bungling, as well as the distraction of the Spanish war, allowing us to grow strong. Which makes it, of course, even less likely that pardons will be offered now. And after what they did to Thomas, after I saw how deep the festering, putrid rot at the heart of the English government actually is, I foreswore now and forever the prospect of ever forgiving them. It was his own father who made sure Thomas was destroyed, as you said. Lord Alfred Hamilton, some relation of Lord Archibald's."

"Lord Alfred is dead," Emma said. "A few years ago. Murdered on a ship called the _Marie Elaine,_ after it was ambushed by a mysterious pirate in the night." She looked straight at Flint. "And the female companion with him."

Flint took that without turning a hair. "She got in my way."

Emma hadn't expected him to deny it, nor had she ever considered another culprit for the killings. The taking of the _Marie Elaine_ had been a scandal even for the pirates. It was the first time any of them had dared to directly attack a ship carrying an important English official, as until then they had confined their efforts to plundering passing merchants and vexing local magistrates. Not until the death of Alfred Hamilton had any of them considered that their reach could be greater, their wrath more terrible, their ambitions able to shape the very fate and future of the Caribbean. It must be chafing Flint's arse full raw to think that he might have a chance to secure a powerful ally at the highest level of government, who could help him take down the English imperial machine he so hated, but that to do so, he would have to cooperate with a Hamilton – and one who, to say the least, had already proven elusive and untrustworthy. Considering his track record, it was all too likely to explode spectacularly in his face.

"I can cross my fingers and swear to James Stuart, if that's what it would take to get Lord Archibald to provide some actual support," Flint said after a moment. "I doubt, however, that the Jacobite cause is going to get anywhere, and thus we would be wise not to shackle ourselves to him for long-term sustenance. I propose we get everything we can from him upfront, and then if and when he falls, it's not a critical blow for us. We're already condemned to hang for being pirates, a second death sentence for being traitors is hardly much of a deterrent."

This accorded rather well with Emma's own thinking. As much as England might resent its unpopular, unpersonable German elector of a new king, its hatred of Catholics – especially considering its decade-long war over just the prospect of a united French and Spanish Catholic crown – ran far too deep for it to ever seriously muster enough popular support for James Stuart's return to the throne. "So if that was the case – if we both knew it was only temporary, to get the resources we needed while we still could – would you be willing to do it?" A rhetorical question, when it came to Flint. If nothing else, he had proven that he would do absolutely anything. Funny how she had thought to ask Miranda to get him to back her for a return to command, and now the tables were decidedly turned. Not for long, but still.

"Aye," Flint said, after a long moment. "But since I am aware that you are less than convinced of the feasibility of my plans regarding Nassau's future, I must wonder why you are suddenly so willing to assist me in achieving them."

 _That's my business, isn't it?_ If Emma had some faint idealistic glimmer of her own – if she had, just for a moment, bought into Flint's fantasy of building her home here, not in cold, far-off Boston that she had never seen, the thought of being able to bring Charles and Henry here lawfully, to live in a land they made themselves – that was beside the point. If the pirates' republic was fortified as its own self-sustaining little fiefdom, Killian Jones would almost certainly decide to join it. Not that Emma should want that to happen. Even if she could see well enough that his loyalty to the Navy was hanging by a thread, and had to fight her guilt in pushing him that far. But if "Captain Hook" returned, if there was a place waiting for him, if Nassau was somewhere he could see himself making a new career. . . if nothing else, Emma had to admit that they made a very good team. And she certainly trusted Killian as a bedfellow far more than Flint, for any number of reasons. But thinking that he _might_ want to come to Nassau, _if_ he left the Navy, so they could _possibly_ work together, was lunacy. She couldn't believe she was treating it as any sort of a serious scenario, let alone making crucial decisions hoping for it, but not quite enough to back down. If Flint's reasons were personal, so were hers.

"It's at least worth a try," was what she said. "It's certainly more to fight for than hoping we have a competent hangman and a quick death. So the bargain sorts out like this. You prove to your crew that it's still worth their while to keep you in command, and that you can actually keep a few of your promises, by leading a raid on the Spanish camp and acquiring some of the treasure. In return, I will support you and use the _Blackbird's_ resources as needed to assist with your re-election. If you can win back into power, we'll take some of the treasure as a sweetener gift to Lord Archibald, visit Jamaica, and see what we make of him. If we think it's something worth pursuing, we cultivate him as an ally. Then we inform Eleanor as to all the new possibilities, if we can open up new trade avenues with the heart of the English Indies."

Flint raised an eyebrow, as both of them knew that it was always best to approach Eleanor with one's guard firmly up and sugar cubes clutched in both hands. She was also not likely to take entirely approvingly to this backroom deal brokerage, although at least it was between her two usual allies, Flint and Emma, and she would come around to accepting it, even if resenting the fact that she had been unavoidably excluded from its creation. "When you put it that way, it sounds rather as if you've given this some thought. Do you intend me to go back, black up my face, and lead the raid on the Spanish camp this very night?"

"I don't imagine it would be wise to send you by yourself, so I'll have Will and a few of the others go with you. It would, however, certainly not be wise to waste time, as I doubt your crew is going to patiently sit and wait for you to get back on a good footing. They'll strike while you're weak. You'll have to do the same."

Flint evaluated her with a grim, approving smile. "Well, well," he said. "Apparently I've taught you a thing or two after all."

"So you have," Emma allowed. "Speaking of which. One other condition of the bargain. Brennan Jones is left behind. Shot, or marooned, or simply lost in the confusion of the raid. I don't care how, he doesn't come back. I've noticed you have a particular talent for arranging convenient ends for your critics, so I'll expect you to put it to use again."

Flint arched his brow as high as it would go. She thought he might actually be impressed. "All that reprimand for me doing for Gates, and then you're asking if I could do the same on your behalf? Bloody hell, why weren't we allies sooner? You're just as rotten as I am."

Emma pushed that away. "Gates was your friend," she said coolly. "Brennan Jones is not mine, and all of us deal with our enemies in whatever way presents itself. Will told me he's already as thick as thieves with that cook, Silver – you want to pull _that_ little devil's collaboration apart, don't you? Deprive Silver of whatever valuable piece he might be lining up for his own manipulations?"

Flint looked at her for a long moment. "Why do you really want him dead? He's a fucking belly-crawling yellow snake, aye, but then again, so are most of the rest of them. And yet, you're making part of this entire agreement hinge on getting rid of him. Why?"

"I don't trust him. You shouldn't either."

"Oh," Flint said. "I heard his story. About selling his sons into slavery, that is. And how said sons are now, miraculously and against all probability, somehow in command of the Navy warship that's been up our arses in some shape or form for the last fucking fortnight." He looked at her again. "Up your arse in a particular way, perhaps?"

Emma opened and shut her mouth. "No."

"As you wish," Flint said, with a faint, sardonic smile. "Very well, I'll see what I can do. As soon as Will and his lot are ready, we'll return to the _Walrus._ If I am very fortunate, half the rival candidates will have murdered each other in a drunken brawl, and the election will merely be a coronation." He got to his feet. "Good evening, Captain Swan."

When he had stepped out, Emma summoned Will in and informed him quickly of the plan. "Keep an eye on your back," she finished up. "Just in case – "

"Flint accidentally misplaces his knife in it?" Will looked wry. "Aye, I don't need tellin' on that account. But this bit with Brennan Jones. . . he's a git, and he needs to pay for it, but why now?"

"Just make sure it goes through," Emma said tightly. She wasn't sure that she hadn't just made a mistake, pushing her luck too far by revealing to Flint that she had a too-personal interest in Brennan Jones gotten out of the way. It would be entirely like him to stage a convincing accident, inform her that Brennan was safely disposed of, and then keep him in his back pocket for when he could be most profitably whipped out again. After all, she had Billy in reserve for that very purpose against him, and Flint would surely see the advantage in reciprocating with Brennan, who was even already aboard his own vessel. "He doesn't come back."

Will looked at her with his head cocked, for a long, uncomfortable moment. "You've not been yourself since you returned," he said at last. "Not that I'm not grateful for you makin' it away from the Navy bastards, mind, but – you're not. You're all over the place. Bleedin' everywhere. And a shark like Flint, you bet your life he smells it. What the hell did those Joneses do to you?"

 _What, indeed._ It would have been so much easier if they'd just tortured her, as Hume certainly would have. "Nothing, actually. I'm fine. Now go on. Go."

* * *

There was nothing anywhere but pain, a great, unfathomable, devouring void that kept plunging deeper and deeper into blackness, and in that blackness, fire. It seared across his eyelids, shook and shuddered his entire body like an iron fist, and bent him double whenever he ascended close to consciousness again. He must be dying, he hoped and prayed devoutly that he was dying, but it never had the mercy of abating entirely. He was still trapped, existing moment by moment in a world that had nothing left but ashes and embers and fragments, a world that so recently had been so bright and full of hope – for doing the right thing. For saving themselves. For making it home. For having Liam at his side again. For being enough. For being anything.

 _Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid._ The chorus sang unceasingly in Killian's head, over and over, until he could hear nothing else. He was aware that he was lying on something, somewhere, that his left arm was truncated and twisted and broken, that he had nothing there where his hand used to be – and yet, somehow, he could still feel it, kept clawing with phantom fingers, but could never grasp hold. He had a faint, seared recollection of seeing it tumbling to the floor, the bright flash of Jennings' knife, Liam's anguished roaring, Gold giving the negligent order for him to be carried away and thrown into a cell until his desire for cooperation improved. Someone had visited him there to cauterize the stump, burning the flesh to a blackened husk to stop the bleeding, then wrapping it in linen – they didn't want him really dying before he could be any use to them. The pain had been so intense that it was actually funny. He laughed. The man told him to shut up. He laughed harder, spat blood in the bastard's face, and received a blow to the face for good measure. He'd fallen back into this tormented, streaked, choked half-consciousness, drifting in and out, nothing, nowhere.

For a short while, he cried, gasping and choking and gagging on his tears. They, however, soon burned to steam, then to salt, then to stone. The fire grew higher and hotter, engulfing him, some kind of fever or delirium or state of being he'd never known existed. Harrowing out the soft parts of Killian Jones as if with a whip and flay. What was left was only iron, heating in the forge, the same name he kept hearing echoed in his skull. _Hook. Hook. Hook_

Killian had no idea how long it had been, how long he had been lying on the filthy jail bed in a mad stupor, when the sound of a rattle at the door pierced through the fog long enough to pull him back to grim reality. Once, and then again. A hooded figure was working intently at the padlock, and for a moment his bruised heart leapt. Liam, of course it was Liam, Liam was here to make it better, Liam would take care of him. But then he remembered, remembered that Liam had lied, had lied, had lied. Was no good man, no honorable paragon. Just a cheat and a murderer like the rest of them. Liam wouldn't be here. Oh God, he couldn't be.

Not very interested in whoever it was instead, Killian put his head down and paid no attention, even as the figure continued to work. Then there was a bright _ching!_ of metal on metal, the hooded man looked around furtively in case anyone had heard that, and leveraged the door open, ducking inside the cell. "Jones. Come quickly."

"Who're you?" Killian slurred, staring up at him – he couldn't quite make out the face beneath the green cloak, but the voice was vaguely familiar. "What d'you wan'?"

"Come on." The man put an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him upright, and blood rushed to his head, flaring in brightly colored spots. He was sweaty and shaky and weak as a newborn kitten, could barely support his own weight. "I have to get you out of here."

At that, recollection torpidly arrived at the party. "Robin?" The bloody hell was the castellan of Fort Berkeley doing here, risking his skin to liberate one of the Governor's personal prisoners? "Robin Locksley?"

"Aye. I know someone in the village, she'll take care of your arm. Your crew quit the city in a rage when they heard what had happened to you and Liam, they took the _Imperator_ just offshore. Once you're treated, I'll see you get back there, but you have to go."

"Liam. . ." Killian's head sank onto Robin's shoulder, even as he struggled mightily to hold what little command of his wits he could. "Where's. . . Liam?"

"I don't know. Regina said she'd try to find him. She sent some of her girls to distract the jailers, so we should have a few minutes." Robin half-carried him down a dank, dark stone culvert, finding his way more by memory than by sight, as he had clearly not dared to risk attention with a torch. "Stay awake."

" _Regina?"_ Killian didn't fancy the sound of that, but the world had been so thoroughly smashed apart that he didn't know, perhaps it made bloody sense after all. "After what she did – why the fuck – would the two of you – help _us?"_

"Gold went too far," Robin said tersely. "What became of you and your brother was apparently never in the original agreement. They'll work together, but they don't like or trust each other, and she thinks the two of you can still be useful to her. No sense letting a rival get his hands on _two_ such valuable pieces, especially when there remains the matter of the _Blackbird."_

"You and Regina bloody Mills. . . can both go. . . straight to hell."

"No doubt we will." Robin shifted Killian's weight, fumbling with a rusted grate. "But I don't care to see such violent injustice, and if I can stop it, then I must. For better or worse, you took a stand. It's time for any decent men remaining in the world to do the same."

Killian barked a ghoulish laugh, in part because just a day ago, he would have thought of his own actions in such terms – taking a stand for truth, against the corruption and treason and deceit that formed the very backbone of this godforsaken fucking pit of despair. Honor. Decency. Avenging injustice. How bloody nice for Robin that he was still able to believe any of it mattered. _You're deluding yourself, mate. You're just putting your own eyes out._

The grate clanked and scraped open, into a steep stone tunnel that led under the prison, to a drainage on the far side of St. John's. Robin hauled them briskly along it, Killian managing to stumble lightheadedly, the pain from his stump bad enough to make his eyes water and his stomach heave in nausea. _My hand's gone. I'll never hold a ship's wheel the same again, never be able to chart a course, to tie a knot, to hold a telescope, to fight, to even get myself properly dressed. I'll never be anything but a useless bloody cripple._ They should just take him to the poorhouse and give him a stick and an alms bowl. Yet still, no matter what, the need not only to live, but to wreak havoc on everything and everyone in his way, was overwhelming, tattooing a bloody drumbeat behind his eyes. _Burn, all of you. Burn._

In a few more tense minutes, they emerged into the thick, sticky summer night, Robin looking left and right before he urged them out of the tunnel, along a muddy back lane built with smaller, shabby-looking houses. He reached the one at the end, glanced around one more time, and knocked.

After a moment, there were footsteps on the other side, the sound of a bar scraping back, and the glow of a candle. A woman's voice whispered hoarsely, "Who's there?"

"Locksley. There's someone I'd have you see to. Ran afoul of the Governor."

There was a hiss of indrawn breath. _"Gold_ did it? Aye. Bring him in. Quickly."

The door opened further, just enough to admit them, and Robin hastened inside, following the woman's instructions to deposit Killian on a narrow cot in the back room, behind a rough sack curtain. It wasn't much, some spinner's hovel, skeins of wool hung from the rafters and a treadle wheel and spindle threaded with the latest batch, vats smelling pungently of dye and lanolin as the woman hurried to move them aside. In the feeble light of her tallow candle, she was striking, slightly older than Liam perhaps, with long dark curls and blue eyes. Her lips pursed as she surveyed the tragic estate of her new house guest. "Which of his dogs did this?"

"Some bastard named Henry Jennings, this time." Robin reached into his cloak and pressed a silver penny into her hand. "Take care of him. I have to get back before I'm missed."

The woman nodded him out, and Killian lay in renewed stupor, not sure what was going on or where he was or having the faintest notion what she intended with him, but grateful not to be moving anymore. Waves of juddering pain kept washing up his arm, no matter how hard he tried to hold it still, as she moved around, assembling some sort of makeshift surgery. Then she opened a bottle, he smelled the distinct sickly-sweet scent of opium, and turned his head away when she tried to press it to his lips. "No. Don' wan' it. Don' care."

"Aye, you want it," she said sharply. "I have to cut and clean and trim your stump, then re-cauterize it. You don't want to endure that sober. Trust me."

Killian was still inclined to protest, in case she got up to something nefarious with his insensate carcass, but supposed he really did not have anything to lose at this point, and nobody was there to see him forfeit the very last of his pride. He suckled at the bottle as she held his head, warning him to drink it slowly, until at last it started to take hold, and he stopped feeling everything quite so much. She floated above him, in outsized, dreamy slowness, unwrapping the bloodstained linen knotted around his arm and setting to work on it. Pain rolled up in blurred, methodical waves like the swell of a heavy ocean far to sea, not the sharp crash of shore breakers. He couldn't imagine why anyone was caring for him. It seemed utterly improbable.

He was aware of her working with sharp shears, trying to cut away and even up the ragged flesh, sear off the nerve endings. The flare of a brazier, the burn of the cautery iron, his own voice screaming somewhere far off, as she rubbed some kind of liniment on it, cushioned it in wool, and bound it firmly with linen, a neat numb club where his left hand had used to be. This clearly was not the first stump she had ever had to deal with. Living among seamen, who lost limbs regularly, and with Gold as an apparent enemy (if nothing else, that made him want to trust her) she must see them depressingly often.

At last she finished, and Killian, who was barely hanging on anyway, plunged headlong into the thrall of poppy-vivid nightmares. They chased him over and over, over and over, ever deeper down the maelstrom to what unknown creature waited at the bottom – what it was exactly, he never got to see. He was whole again, he was raising both hands before his face, was flexing them, ten perfectly working fingers, this had all just been a bad dream. Then they began to hiss and burn before his face, evanescing into smoke, as he screamed without a word, blundering from wall to faceless wall, trying to get out of the maze but running every time into a dead end. The beast was coming for him. It was coming.

At last, he reached a black lake, fell into it like a stone, down and down, and hit the bottom with a jerk hard enough to wake him up, lathered in cold sweat and gasping. He was back on the narrow bed in the spinners' cottage, and he was feverishly and impossibly thirsty. He heaved, then groaned, but the woman was back, holding a cool goblet of water to his lips. "Easy," she said softly. "Easy."

Killian drank every drop, almost licking her fingers to get more of it, as she settled him carefully back into the bed. "Who're you?" he rasped. "What do you want?"

"My name is Milah." She put the goblet down. "Any enemy of the governor is my friend. You're safe here."

"My brother," Killian muttered. "Where did they take my brother?"

"I don't know. I'd have heard about it if there had been a hanging, though." Milah straightened the knotted coverlet. "I managed to mend most of the damage, and your arm should heal. Men can still sail with one hand, I've seen it done. Or perhaps – "

"Sail how?" Killian almost snarled. "Waving my stump at the enemy to frighten them into surrendering? Maybe I can totter to and fro with my cane, like a proper cripple? _He took my hand,_ I can't – "

And at that, he stopped. Had an idea that had not occurred to him before, something ironic and different and the bitterest of black jests, a way to embrace in truth what he had now become. He looked at her. "Do you think you could rig up a brace of some sort? Something to strap on the arm, over the shoulder, something that would be strong enough to fight with?"

"Aye?" Milah looked doubtful, but intrigued. "What for?"

Killian closed his eyes. "A hook."

"A hook? A – what, a fish hook?"

"No. A boat hook. One of those sharp steel ones. They can laugh at me for being half a man all they like, right until I bury that between their eyes."

"You certainly shouldn't go trying to swing anything into anyone for a while. Your stump is still raw, it needs time to heal. Maybe if it was closed, yes, but – "

"Let me worry about that. Could you do it?"

"Well," Milah said, after a moment of consideration. "It certainly has the advantage of novelty. I could try, at least."

"Good. Do that."

With that, even holding his head up for long became too much, and he plunged back down the black well. After another series of equally troubling and circuitous nightmares, he woke again, to find Milah piecing together some contraption of straps and buckles and a leather cuff clearly intended to fit over his bandaged stump, to which she was lashing a hook firmly into place with waxed sailmakers' thread. He watched her work for a while, as she didn't seem to notice that he was awake. She had a cool, brusque competence about her that he much admired, first in treating his lost hand and now in fashioning the replacement for it. Surely someone up at the fort had noticed by now that he had escaped. The redcoats might be going door to door. He'd have to get out of here soon, before he put her in danger too.

At last, Milah finished, noticed he was watching her, and startled slightly. "Here," she said, rising to her feet and bringing it over. "Let's see how this works."

Killian struggled upright and shucked his shirt clumsily with one hand, suddenly aware of being half-nude in front of her, her arms coming around him as she fitted the brace, easing it over the stump and buckling the straps one by one. As she said, it was mostly for show at this point, but at least she had cut away enough of the nerves that he really did not feel much at all – just a distant, dull throbbing like a diseased tooth, nothing unbearable. Her fingers brushed his chest as she settled it over his shoulder, then stepped back to inspect her handiwork. "Not bad."

Killian lifted his left arm, staring at the alien appendage affixed to it. Tried a swing, hearing the sharp curve of metal whistle in the air. He didn't know quite what this was, what he was, but he had a feeling he would soon find out, and a savage, blackened joy was rising in his chest. They had tried to destroy him. They had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Milah helped him back into his shirt, doing up the buttons, and their eyes lingered on each other's, the air slightly charged between them. Then something caught her attention outside, she went to look, and when she came back, her dark brows had creased. "There is a patrol a few streets away. If you go straight down the bluff from here, there's a boat on the beach below. Your ship is just offshore. Get there, and run. Run, and don't look back."

Killian hesitated. "What about you?"

Milah went to a trunk, opened it, and pulled out a gun – a fowling piece, normally used for hunting small game such as birds. "I can buy you some time."

"What?" He struggled to his feet. There had definitely been a crash, closer at hand, and the sound of shouting. "No. They'll kill you. Come – come with me."

"I can't," Milah said. "I have a son here."

"Well then! Fetch him and we'll go, all three of us! I can take you wherever you want, a safe port far away from here. If we hurry, we can – "

Milah gave him a longer, terribly sad look, and in it, all at once, Killian understood. That when she said had a son here, she meant a son buried in its earth, one who would always be here, and who Gold must have had a personal hand in sending there. That she could not stand the thought of leaving his grave behind for good. Had to make up for some long-past wrong, something for which she too could not entirely forgive herself.

Still, though. The shouts were definitely closer. "Milah, I – "

"I can handle myself. I'll be charged and imprisoned if I'm caught, but likely not hanged. On the other hand, they _will_ hang you. I can cover your retreat." She snapped the stock of the fowling piece into place. "In the worst case, I'll go down fighting. Christ's mercy. _Go."_

A window broke, just down the street. For a moment longer, they stared at each other. Milah took him by the collar, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him sweetly, swiftly, then pushed him back. "To remember me by," she said. "In another life, perhaps I would have. Now run!"

At last, still terribly reluctantly, Killian took her at her word. Clambered through the back window, started to run down the dim, twisting lane, to the end of the houses and the edge of the steep bluffs. There was a narrow rope ladder that led down it, so people could get from their houses to the beach, and he was about to dare the precipitous descent with a hook and a hand, which sounded like a recipe for disaster, until it quite simply occurred to him that he couldn't. Someone who had only just met him was back there willing to die for him, had saved his arm and his life and given him – however black and charred – renewed hope for the future. He wasn't leaving her to Gold's dogs. He couldn't.

He spun around, running back the way he had come. "Milah. Milah! Bloody hell, Milah, I – "

A gunshot cracked the murky predawn air like a bolt of thunder. Then another.

He skidded to a halt, a strangler's fist closing around his heart. That wasn't the sound of a lighter fowling piece, but a heavy officer's musket. He could hear shouting, and then smelled smoke. There was an eerie glow that did not stem from the rising sun, running through the thatch of her cottage.

Another gunshot.

He didn't know it was her. He had no proof she was dead; he hadn't seen what had happened, after all. He could still run in there, into the barrels of a dozen redcoats, and be hauled straight back off to jail and the most unpleasant end Gold's twisted and fecund imagination could possibly conjure. But if so – if this – if he had killed Milah too with his cowardice – should never have listened, should have picked her up and carried her bodily – but she had told him to run, and he had done as she said, respected her choice, would never have taken a woman away against her will, _in another life perhaps I would have –_

"Milah!" he roared, not caring who might hear him. _"Milah!"_

The only sound was the flames. In a poor, crowded district like this, half of it would be ablaze before long. All of this. All going down. All because of him.

All because of Lord Robert Gold.

In that moment, something close to vertigo took hold of Killian, as if he was staring at himself from outside his own body. Everything had become horribly, maddeningly, perfectly clear. Crystalline. As if it was truly remarkable he hadn't seen it before, and that now, having seen it, there was no way he would ever forget it again.

He whirled around, and made a break for it.

Fifteen minutes later, after any number of near-fatal plunges off the rope ladder, he made it to the beach and the small ketch pushed up on the sand. It had a sail, which was good; he wouldn't have been able to manage oars. He vaulted over the gunwale and ran it up, seeing the plume of smoke rising off the bluff, skittering across the water like a drunken junebug. Rounded the spit of the coast, and saw the _Imperator_ ahead, just as promised. Torches lit and shouts echoed when they saw him coming, and guns were trained in his direction, until they realized who he was. They hauled him on board with various utterances of shock and jubilance, but he barely heard them, swaying on the spot, eyes staring a thousand yards into whatever endless fall awaited him.

"Captain?" someone was saying. "Captain?"

Slowly, drunkenly, Killian roused back to himself. Glanced around at them, ready to do whatever he said, not caring against who. They were his men – his and Liam's – no, he would think about Liam later, later. Robin had said they had revolted and left the city after hearing what had happened to the Jones brothers. _Mine. My men._

Fine, then. It was time. Long past time, in fact. No more of this. No more.

"Take down that British rag," he said. "Burn it. Run up the black flag. Run up the red streamer. Get rid of everything everywhere that might cause anyone to do us the grievous insult of mistaking us for slaves of the Royal fucking Navy. We are that no longer. We are our own men. We are the _Jolie Rouge,_ and we at last can draw a decent breath, we can hold our heads high, we can know that at least among thieves, there is honor. We'll do what we please. We'll live by our own rules. And let whoever comes for us know that we, at last, are _free."_

His voice had been rising in intensity as he spoke, until it teetered on a roar, and it was met in turn by a thunderous shout. Men began stripping off their uniforms, someone climbing the aft mast to cut the Union Jack from its halyard; it fell like a dead man, with a slap of heavy cloth on the deck, and Killian strung it up like one, put the torch to it, felt his lips peel back in a vicious smile as it began to twist and char. He went to his cabin to fetch the black coat, the earring, the boots, shrugging them on over the filthy remnants of his shirt and breeches. Buckled on his sword, clumsily and slowly, and realized he would need to practice everything now with renewed care, lest he accidentally impale himself. But that did not matter. Nothing did.

Another cheer greeted him when he stepped out, the men having ripped off the blue and white of the Navy, some of them likewise burning their jackets. _Pirates_. They had started to gather around, to chant. "Captain Hook! Captain Hook! Captain Hook!"

 _Aye._ Killian had never liked anything so well as that. He raised it overhead, catching the sunrise, gleaming and beautiful and deadly. He waited until the ruckus died slightly, then spoke. "Load the guns. We have unfinished business."

"Aye? Your. . . your brother?"

"Him too." Killian turned to the railing. "But here we sit, inside Antiguan waters, and there are half a dozen ships of the Royal Navy anchored and asleep in English Harbor, just at the other end of the island. Even if the alarm has been raised by now, most of them are too decrepit to leave the bay, and the rest do not match our strength. No need to leave any loose ends."

"So – we're attacking the harbor? The _entire_ harbor?"

"Aye." Killian's lips split in a mad, mirthless smile. "The entire harbor. I want every single one of the Navy ships sunk, every man dead. I want all our guns back. Make sure we get those first. But as for the rest, burn them. Burn them all."

* * *

Somewhere far away in the recesses of his consciousness, Liam Jones smelled lilac. At first a faint whiff, then something stronger, pulling him closer and closer to the surface. He didn't want to wake, didn't want to return to the world, but he couldn't resist. Perhaps, hopefully, he was dead, and wouldn't have to face what awaited, but he was not so lucky.

He opened his eyes.

It took him a long moment to figure out where on earth he could possibly be. It was a dim, shuttered room, well provided in comforts and fashionable touches, and he was sprawled on a bed with silken sheets, still feeling every inch of the beating that Gold's minions had administered, after he wouldn't stop fighting them and trying to get to Killian, fighting with everything he had and yet knowing that he had failed, had utterly and terribly failed, and there was no going back. No mending it. Nothing. No hope.

Thus, to find himself in a remotely pleasant situation was utterly mystifying. His memory was not working that well, must have blacked out much of the past hours from sheer self-preservation. Someone coming for him. Someone leading him here, to –

He sat bolt upright, fighting the head reel. "What the _bloody_ hell?"

"No need to shout, Captain." Regina Mills emerged from behind a louvered screen, impeccably gowned and jeweled, smelling of that same whiff of lilac that had called him back from his much-preferred state of oblivion. "I can hear you."

" _You."_ Liam fell back on the pillows, trying to work up enough ambulation to get up and strangle her. Not that he was sure what that would accomplish, other than momentarily making him feel better, but this effort was clearly doomed to failure anyway, and he wanted a few answers first. "What the bleeding Jesus do you want with me?"

"I saved your neck," Regina informed him, "so _you_ will want to speak me a _touch_ more civilly, Captain. Let's start there, shall we?"

"I don't want your plots, I want my brother. Where the hell is he?"

"I don't know. And I doubt, frankly, it would be a wise idea to look too closely into the matter. I did send an associate to find your worthless sibling, though, so that's something else you'll owe me." Gown whispering, Regina moved to sit in the chair across from him, regarding him appraisingly. "Well, you look terrible. Still delectable, though. For a condemned traitor, that is."

"You're not going to work on me." Liam hauled himself upright again. "You tried to have both of us killed."

Regina's lips pressed into an elegant line. "I tried to have _Captain Swan_ killed," she corrected icily. "You and your little tagalong would have been perfectly fine, if you did as I asked. It was Gold's bloody idea to hire the _Blackbird_ to destroy you, as I found out too late. He doesn't get everything he wants, and I'm not done with you yet. You represent a valuable investment. So." She shrugged an elegant white shoulder. "Here you are. Don't thank me all at once."

"Explain," Liam repeated in a growl. "Now."

"No." Regina grinned maliciously.

" _Explain."_

"Convince me."

"I swear to bloody Christ, I'm going to – "

"Friendly piece of advice," Regina said. "If I raise my voice, two large men with even larger fists will come bursting in, and they could either beat you to a further pulp, or just hand you straight back to the governor's jail. We don't want that, do we?"

Liam gritted his teeth. "No."

"Good." Regina smoothed her skirts sleekly. "As I said, it was Gold who wanted you destroyed, not me. I certainly did not intend to let _Swan_ carry out his wishes, even if she didn't know they were his, and rob me of valuable pieces. So when I found out what had happened, I had you rescued. Is that good enough?"

"No. Why did you want Captain Swan dead?"

"Going straight for the throat, aren't we?" Her dark eyes were flat and cold. "Fine. She killed the man I loved. Captain Colter, the commander of the _Valiant,_ the one that sank – his name was Daniel. He would have been my husband, if he came back. But because of her, because of Captain Swan luring him into the storm, he never did. She destroyed everything I had hoped for the future, my heart and soul, and I'm damn well going to do the same to her."

Liam opened and then shut his mouth. He had been about to tell her that this seemed rather excessive, but he knew perfectly well that if the same had happened to Killian, he would have done the same. Made sure that the person responsible for it suffered. Which, he thought with a sickening jerk, had already happened. Gold and Jennings and Nolan and Booth and Plouton. He couldn't take all five of them down alone, and he certainly wasn't going to let them get away with it. If Regina was experienced in Gold's tricks, as well as in exacting revenge, and had decided to cut ties with her former partner in crime, it might be some use to cultivate her help. Better than sitting in a cell and waiting for the noose, at bloody least.

"Well, then," Liam said. Didn't know why the lie came so easily to his lips, but it did. "In that case, your quest is fulfilled. Killian told me himself he killed the captain of the _Blackbird."_

" _Did_ he?" Regina had not expected that, he could see. One exquisite eyebrow twitched, and she clasped her hands hard, as if to still them trembling. "Captain Swan?"

"Aye."

She smiled, just a flicker, with such real relief, such impassioned grief, that he almost felt bad for deceiving her. Then she got hold of herself. "We'll see about that, won't we? I'll need proof. Either way, though, we _could_ do well together. More if you'd just agree to cut bait and come with me."

"What – leave my brother?"

"Your brother, believe me, wants nothing to do with you, and you have _hardly_ done such a good job with him, have you?" Regina's smile turned sweetly poisonous, twisting the knife. "Come on, William. Do something for yourself, just for once. It's very liberating."

He jerked. "William – ?"

"William Raleigh Jones?" She raised an eyebrow. "I read your arrest warrant, you know. That's a very odd name for a Catholic Irishman. King Billy, deposer of the Catholic King James, _and_ one of Queen Elizabeth's most loyal and Protestant servants. Was someone trying to hex you from the start?"

"My. . ." Liam hesitated. "My father. When I was born, he was. . . he had already come to the attention of the English authorities. My name was a way to prove to them he wasn't going to cause any more trouble. It was 1683, and William of Orange was already widely rumored as the preferred successor to King Charles II, rather than his Catholic brother James. So that and Walter Raleigh, the ultimate symbols of Protestant loyalty. I was his peace offering."

"So you've been lumbered with the weight of your father's crimes since your very birth." Regina looked at him again, with something slightly different in her expression, but if it was softness, or pity, it was quickly gone. "No wonder you've always gone by Liam."

"Since I was old enough to talk, and to understand what he had meant by calling me that." Liam's voice was rusty; he had only ever discussed this with Killian, and even then, not much. Had always felt it was better to banish their father to the past, as if speaking his name, like the Devil, could conjure him anew. "He left us. I'm not leaving Killian. No matter what."

"You are quite stubborn," Regina said, after a longer moment. "But be that as it may, you can't live your entire life trying to stop him from plunging off the cliff. You've done what you can, and now. . ." She got to her feet, gliding closer, until he was breathing the scent of her, looking up at her, as she perched lightly on his lap. Traced a hand slowly up his chest, to cup his unshaven cheek. "Be your own man. Free. Don't you want that, Liam? Don't you want this?"

He did want it, in fact. Hard enough to make him clench his own fists, in case he did something he'd regret. But he had already vowed that there was nothing she could do to separate him from his duty, and even if Killian hated his guts now, he wasn't about to break one more promise. "We find my brother," he said evenly. "That's the starting point of any bargain. Otherwise, you _can_ hand me back to Gold's men, and they can have their show trial and their hanging. I don't care. If I'm just a useful piece to you, at least they'd put me out of my misery faster."

Regina blinked, as she clearly had not expected him to be willing to bargain with his own life to force her hand. "As I said, there's no need to let Gold get everything he wants. I suspect we can work around that. But it would be easier for me to get you out of here without Killian."

"No."

"Just _leave_ him." She sounded exasperated. "He's not worth it."

"Is Daniel Colter not worth that much to you?"

This time it was Regina's turn to be taken aback. She got abruptly off his lap, seductive mood interrupted, and went to the window, as if to gather herself for her next offer. Then, all at once, her spine went stiff.

"What?" Liam hauled himself off the bed with a groan, striding to join her. "What?"

Regina turned around. There was still a line linked between her brows, but a different one, as if even she had been taken off guard, and wasn't quite sure what to expect next. In an odd, offhand voice she said, "English Harbor is burning."


	15. XV

**-XV-**

It was just past daybreak, the sun a butter-golden crescent low in the rosy eastern sky, when Emma saw the boat returning. She had spent the remainder of the night combing the _Blackbird_ from stem to stern, seeing if it could manage a return voyage to Jamaica – Lord Archibald was surely going to be surprised when the merchant's daughter he had made such cordial parlay with returned as a pirate – and was reasonably confident that as long as they hit no more hurricanes or men-of-war, the answer was yes. The biggest leaks were packed with caulk and tar and oakum, someone assigned to check the pumps every so often to make sure the water in the hold wasn't getting any higher, and the _Blackbird_ was a stout old girl who had survived plenty of her share of skirmishes. The two of them, ship and captain, did well together in a man's world, and that at least was the bright side to all of Emma's efforts to get back here. It was thus time for yet one more dangerous and uncertain gambit that could cost them their lives if it backfired, and really, by now, what difference was that from Monday?

Hailed by the shout of the lookout, she went up to the deck, just in time to see the boat riding alongside in a whitewash of wake. The morning air was still and hot, deep blue shadows lying on the low trees further inland, and the first beams of sunlight picked out dazzling flecks of mica and quartz on the sand as the tide went out. Emma's interest, however, was much more firmly on a different sort of shiny thing. Her eyes swept the black-painted, kerchief-wrapped shadows of the raiding party. No Brennan Jones, or at least she didn't think so. Had Flint actually held up his end of the bargain? She could feel temperatures dropping in hell by the minute.

Gaston and another burly crewman threw the rope ladder and hooked it into place, and the smudged, soot-stained ruffians tramped on board. Emma shot an apprehensive look at the trapdoor that led into the crew's quarters, as she very much hoped Billy Bones would not select this delicate moment to grace them with an inopportune appearance, before she turned to the last man over the side, eyes glittering a familiar green beneath the war paint. "Well?"

"Well." Flint unhooked the cloth over his face, which was so smeared with smoke and soot that he almost looked to be wearing a mask. There was a glancing gash on his shoulder, crusting blood, which the fabric of his shirt had stuck to, but he didn't seem to notice. He pulled a knotted bundle out of his jacket, clinking and heavy with the weight of something tied up inside, and with a vicious smile and a showman's flourish, scattered it open. "How about that?"

A gasp rose from the gathered pirates of the _Blackbird_. Heavy Spanish _escudos,_ the golden doubloons worth more than most men's yearly wage, a scatter of uncut emeralds and rubies, a cascade of pieces of eight, a few chunks of indigo and ivory, ingots of raw gold and silver, and a fat black pearl nearly the size of Emma's thumbnail, which Flint picked up and presented ceremoniously to her. "Does it appear I've done my job, Captain Swan?"

"Aye, you – you have, at that." It was worse than foolish to ask how Flint miraculously managed to conjure stupendous good luck out of the direst of situations, as the only thing he was better at than getting himself into trouble was getting himself out of it. There had to be at least a few thousand dollars of stolen Spanish treasure sitting on the deck of her ship right now, and she didn't even know if that was all of it. "Did you have to fight them?"

Flint shrugged. "Shot a few. Proper brawl at the perimeter of the camp, which was where Brennan Jones heroically gave his life for the cause. We all regret and honor his sacrifice."

"You're sure?" Emma stepped closer, lowering her voice, even while her crew was still completely distracted by the sparkling treasure. "He's dead?"

"Well, I certainly saw him get stabbed nastily by a Spanish bayonet, and he wasn't moving when we left him behind, so. . ." Flint shrugged again, curling the end of his mustache between his fingers. "We managed to grab this and one other chest. Not as much as I'd hoped, but it should be enough to ensure everyone's compliance for the time being. If you and the ship would escort me back to the _Walrus,_ so they don't kill me before they find it out, that would be appreciated."

"Aye," Emma said slowly. He had certainly done his job quite brilliantly, as Flint always did with his back against the wall, and she allowed herself the briefest and faintest hope that things would actually continue going well from here. She looked around for Will, who had likewise pushed down the kerchief over his face and was gazing at the heap of treasure like his firstborn child. Good, at least Flint hadn't accidentally lost him too. "I'll give the order to make sail. If everything goes to plan, we can be on our way to Jamaica later today."

"About that," Flint said. "If the two of us are going to attempt to actually work together, we must admit that we stand a much greater chance of being honest with each other if we had an arbitrator along. Someone to keep an eye on us. We should stop at Nassau and pick up Miranda first."

"Miranda?" Emma had to concede that this was a surprisingly good and reasonable suggestion coming from Flint, as if there was one person in the world who could keep rein on both of them, whose advice they respected and whose presence they would protect, it was Mrs. Barlow. Still, though, considering the tragic family history. . . "Do you really want to make her face a Hamilton with no warning? After everything they put both of you through?"

Flint's jaw set. "No," he said stiffly. "No, frankly, I do not. However, since I myself have already agreed to the necessity, and since neither of us knew Lord Archibald in the past, we can excuse it as nothing more than an unfortunate mischance of relation on his part. _He_ had nothing to do with the villainous actions of his cousin, otherwise he would pay. Besides, Miranda is much better at this sort of genteel parlor politics than either you or I. If we can play on her status as a former member of the family, Lord Archibald might also be inclined to give us a better hearing-out."

Emma supposed this was all fairly sensible, even as she wondered what Miranda would think. "What if she refuses?"

"I'd never drag her there against her will, you know that." Flint looked tired. It had, after all, been a long night. "I'd much rather keep her safely on Nassau, believe me. But if we're committing to this bloody faux-Jacobite plan, out-traitoring the traitors, we need her help."

"We can certainly ask her." Emma turned away, raising her voice to call for the crew to get underway, as they reluctantly tore their eyes off the glittering gold and gems. Flint, however, had been waiting for just this opportunity. He magnanimously informed them that this treasure was now the property of the _Blackbird,_ that they could divide it among themselves, as he had an entire extra chest to give to the _Walrus._ In return, of course, he was sure that they would consider his wishes and value his presence. Any threats to him, or to his command, thus became an insult against them, and he was sure they would deal with them accordingly.

Emma had no choice but to grit her teeth and smile as she watched Flint buy out her entire crew in public, beneath her very nose, so there was no chance of mistaking it later. Aye, of course they were supposed to be allies now, and it never hurt to give the men extra incentive to remember that, but it just made her remember that every time Flint showed any hint of weakness or weariness, any flicker of the man beneath the cutthroat pirate captain, he would immediately follow it up by reminding everyone exactly who the latter was in the first place. He had the same sort of darkness in him as Killian Jones, but while Killian's had been bleeding and splattering everywhere, uncontrolled and uncontained, Flint had learned more or less how to manage his, to live with it, to make it work for him instead of vice versa. He had had a long time to get comfortable in it, shape it, live in it, furnish it to his liking. Sometimes it shattered and sent him somewhere still darker, as when he had killed Gates, but for the most part, it was simply his ordinary everyday existence, no longer a goad and a torment, a death spiral. If Killian was going to make it, in the Navy or otherwise, he was going to have to build the same castles, the same protections. If not. . .

Emma shook her head, as had become her habit when thoughts of Jones kept infiltrating it, which meant she had recently started looking like a horse with a bee in its ear. They would be lucky if they didn't run into him on this trip, filled with self-righteous outrage and eager to prove he had never actually deserted. After all, he had past delicate dealings with Lord Archibald too, and if he decided to head to Jamaica to round up the treasonous governor for the Admiralty, put paid to any questions of his loyalty. . . if they had the colossal bad timing as to arrive simultaneously. . .

No. That was only wild speculation, and she had other matters to attend to – such as getting Flint back on the _Walrus,_ and back to captaincy, without a riot. The _Blackbird_ skimmed down the coast toward the other pirate ship's anchorage. As they drew nearer, they spied a small figure in a boat, rowing vigorously out to meet them, until Emma could make out a tumble of glossy black curls, a patched blue jacket, and – as the boat reached them and its occupant climbed aboard – a dazzling white, patently untrustworthy smile. "Captain Flint. I had a feeling you'd be on your way back soon."

"You." Flint looked as if he had been hailed by the king of the leper colony. "Had a productive night, have you?"

"Actually, I have." The newcomer smiled modestly, before spotting Emma and pulling an elaborate bow. "You must be the lovely Captain Swan, we haven't yet had the pleasure. Silver's the name. John Silver, at your service, my lady."

"Oh?" This must indeed be the git everyone had forewarned her about. She smiled demurely. "And what are you doing out here so. . . expeditiously, John Silver?"

"The same thing as you. Helping restore the captain of the _Walrus_ to his rightful place. Don't thank me all at once, you know," Silver added to Flint, who stared at him with an expression as if he wouldn't thank him for pissing on him to put him out if he was on fire. "I spent the entire night canvassing the crew, planting doubts about the other contenders, telling them that you were still our best option, and otherwise laying the groundwork for your triumphant return. You do have one planned, I trust? You don't seem like the sort of man who wouldn't."

"I have one," Flint growled. "And why, exactly, are you running up here like my pet hound, so eager to poke your nose into my plans? Just because you happily support me?"

"Am I wrong to?"

Flint's glare turned up, if possible, several more baleful notches. "One day I _will_ kill you in your sleep, cook. Be warned."

"Oh, I wouldn't doubt it," Silver said airily. "But in the meantime, we've well established that you are the man best suited for my interests, and by extension the crew's, and I'm not about to change the wager I've made on you for one of _those_ squabbling idiots. So, it's not that difficult. Here I am, still your loyal man. By the way, where is Brennan Jones?"

"Sacrificed himself," Flint said. "Heroically. It's a deeply felt loss to us all."

Silver's expression flickered. It was hard to say if he had not seen that coming, if even he had slightly underestimated the caliber of manipulator he was dealing with – surely he could have no reason to suspect that Emma had anything to do with this. She remembered Will saying that he was the son of the captain who had held the Jones brothers in bondage and then drowned; was he somehow trying to get revenge for his father's death by attaching himself to _their_ father? But she had met men motivated by revenge before – Flint not least among them – and John Silver wasn't one. Just a purely self-interested, opportunistic, see-where-the-wind-takes-you charismatic bullshit peddler, who survived by lying to the wrong men at the right time and telling the truth to the right men at the wrong time. No wonder Flint hated him so much. What he did with threats and dark menace and ruthlessness and mystery, Silver did with wit and charm and a wry quip, making you feel like he was your friend, whereas Flint manifestly did not. Two sides of the same dangerous coin, indeed. She would have to keep her eyes wide open around this one.

"Well," the cook said, after another moment. "If you do have something to make a splash with upon your return to the crew, we should get on with it. As I've said, I've tamed the beast enough that they probably won't try to kill you on sight – you're welcome, again – and since the Spaniards seem quite restless, it is probably best for all of us to get on our way before they do something drastic. You wouldn't have had anything to do with that, would you?"

In answer, Flint reached into his jacket, removed a heavy golden ingot, and lobbed it casually at Silver's head, clearly with the expectation that if the man couldn't catch it in time, it would be even better. However, when wealth was concerned, John Silver was on the job. He snatched it out of the air, looked at it, stared, and then broke into a broad smile. "I _knew_ I wasn't wrong."

"I'm sure there's a medal somewhere we can pin on you," Flint snapped. "Let's get bloody going."

As they watched Flint and Silver descend the side and into the rowboat, pulling oars back toward the _Walrus,_ Will whistled softly. "That one's more dangerous than Gates ever was. Odds on Flint letting him live out the year?"

Emma had been rather wondering that herself, but she also thought that while Flint and Silver's essential similarity, despite their vastly different approach, might cause them to butt heads like rival stags in rutting season, it also meant that Flint might, for once, have to tread carefully. Gates had been a longtime friend and a steady, loyal man, experienced enough to adroitly navigate the dangerous waters of politicking and pirating alike, but without the same core of burning, amoral ambition that drove Flint – and now, she could see, Silver. Someone who could make your men do what he wanted, while making them think it was their idea and he was their closest friend, was about as perilous an underling as it was possible for a captain to have. Silver might be content as second-in-command, letting Flint take the blame and the buffet of bad decisions while retaining his cozy, protected position of influence, but Emma, having just got through the disastrous Felix episode, was very aware of how bad this could go, how fast.

They watched tensely, ready to sail in to get Flint out of there if needed, but while the scene on the _Walrus_ was predictably rowdy, it didn't quite explode into open violence. Silver must indeed have softened them to a useful degree, and Flint's presentation of the chest of stolen Spanish treasure certainly would have, as it had here, gone a long way toward sealing the deal. Emma could well imagine what he was saying, the angle he was playing. After all, while the other candidates were bickering and backstabbing, he had been out leading a daring midnight raid with just a few brave men, and reaping the rewards for it. Were they really going to toss him aside now? They might not like him, his character flaws might be numerous and manifest, but a change of leadership would avail them exactly nothing. Now they had a plan in place to get even more money from the English government itself, a steady income to tide them over for mounting an even bigger and better assault on the salvage camp in a few weeks. Didn't it sound nice to have Lord Archibald paying them from King George's own pocket, subverting the entire authority of the crown in the British Indies? Bit of reliable cash, one better than the basic treasure-sharing scheme in place aboard most ships, and then they'd return here and get _all_ the Spanish treasure, not just this little sweetener that he offered as proof of his sincerity. It was all in front of them. It was all so easy. Just stretch out their hands, and take him back.

Watching Flint through the spyglass, Emma could identify every one of these segments almost precisely, by his body language, the look on his face, the reactions of the gathered crew. He was just speeding toward his grand finale, and they were clearly falling back into his sway as most ordinary mortals did when confronted with Flint at his most persuasive, when a voice behind her said, "Christ. I didn't think your plan for dealing with him involved just sticking him back in the same fucking spot where he cocked everything up beforehand."

Emma stiffened. "I have it under control."

Billy raised an eyebrow at her, both of them knowing that these had been famous last words for nearly everyone. After a moment he said, "This isn't going to work. Flint's not going to be any more careful with their lives than he was last time. More of them are going to die, there are going to be more lies and tricks and disasters, and you're letting him. . . why?"

Emma had been about to say, _I don't have any other choice._ But that would make it evident that while she might look like Flint's powerful protector for the moment, that state of affairs would only last until he was – as looked to be happening quite shortly – back in control of the _Walrus._ And she wasn't going to turn away now. How could she? The Navy would be breathing fire hunting her, and she _was_ safer with Flint (whether _from_ Flint was always the question, but if Miranda was around, it might even actually be the case). Time to build something real, the reason she had gotten into piracy in the first place. Not just steal hand to mouth and hope the money kept coming. His vision of a future for Nassau, a home, was idealistic and impossible and dangerous in any number of ways. But she didn't care. It was the best thing she had to fight for, and her only hope. Flint was the only one who cared about it too. And as such, objections still considered, dangers well catalogued, she was in.

"I have my reasons," she said coolly. "And if you're staying on my ship, you'll do as I say."

Billy opened his mouth, then shut it. Looked at her again, for a very long moment, as if wondering what the consequences of his decision to save her all those years ago were going to lead them to now. Then nodded again, even more coolly, and walked away.

* * *

As only a fool would have bet against, Flint pulled it off. It was barely another half-hour until the _Blackbird_ could hear the shouts of acclamation rocking the _Walrus'_ deck, as he bounded up onto one of the shrouds and gave them a rousing speech, as cutlasses and pistols were shaken and a few celebratory shots went off. The dancing skeleton was hoisted, the sails unfurled, and someone signaled Emma to do the same. The course was set for Nassau, and a brief stopover to pick up Miranda, before the risky voyage to Jamaica, and the alliance with Lord Archibald Hamilton.

It wasn't that far home from the wreck sites, just a bit over two hundred miles, but still a day and night's travel, though the strong easterly winds sped the journey a bit. The _Blackbird_ and the _Walrus_ sailed in consort, keeping a sharp eye out for other vessels; considering the amount of powerful people they had recently made enemies of, Emma would not be very surprised to see the entire Western Fleet on their tails. England and Spain might even overcome their differences to put the pirates out of business, if they kept up like this. If Lord Archibald did not feel inclined to accept their bargain, he could, after all, just hand them over to either HMS _Diamond_ or _Jamaica,_ the Navy frigates permanently stationed in Kingston, and wash his hands of it. But Emma had gambled quite a lot on hoping that he would see his Jacobite activities more enriched by getting two powerful captains on his side. Jennings had his uses, but there were certainly important things that he could not do as a privateer and agent of the Crown.

They reached Nassau early the next morning. Rather than sail into the harbor and cause a furor, they circled the cape and anchored several miles away from the town, from which it was a fairly quick scramble up the bluffs and down the muddy road to Miranda's house. Flint and Emma had gone alone, feeling it was best to present the project in a more personal light, and when she opened the door, it was clear from the expression on her face that Miranda immediately knew there had to be a story forthcoming. "Well, well. Both of you together. Did it work, then? Whatever you were proposing?"

"More or less." There was always a change in Flint's face whenever he looked at Miranda, something much softer and more genuine, the way his walls and his acts and his atrocities all vanished and he became simply her old Navy lieutenant again, the man who loved her and for whom she had given up everything in return. It gave Emma a peculiarly painful twist of the heart to see, not that she was thinking of who or why. "We have something we need to discuss."

"I rather supposed that was coming," Miranda said, standing back and holding the door for them. "Well then. It won't be on the step."

Once they were sitting in her kitchen, Miranda having fetched a pitcher of cool water from her well and poured them each a goblet, Flint laid out the plan as it stood, and whether she would be willing to come along to Jamaica with them, ensure their adherence to their alliance with each other, and give Lord Archibald a well-mannered feminine push in their preferred direction. He stressed that he would rather have her safe here, and that she certainly did not need to feel herself obliged, but at the news that it was a Hamilton, Miranda's face first went very still, then sharply determined. "Absolutely not," she said. "I am not staying behind and letting you speak to the man alone, James. Even if he had nothing to do with previous – events, I can be quite sure it would require a defter touch than, forgive me, you sometimes seem to possess. And heaven knows someone needs to see the pair of you don't scratch each other's eyes out. I'm coming."

"Are you sure?" Flint asked, for the half-dozenth time. "If he knows anything of what – what really happened with Thomas – "

"I'm tired of not talking about Thomas." Miranda's chin came up, firmly set, her brown eyes too bright and her voice faintly cracked. "That was why I gave Richard Guthrie that book, and why you were angry at me for it. If Lord Archibald has any questions about his distant cousin's tragic demise, I'll take the blame, just as I always did. You know that, James."

Flint gazed at her for a long moment, the two of them so lost in their own world as to quite forget Emma's presence. Their foreheads almost touched, his hand lying over hers, speaking to the fierce, unbreakable depth of tragedy and loyalty, trust and love, that bound them together. They had never been married in a church, both out of respect for Thomas Hamilton's memory and because neither of them saw any reason to ask the church to sanction their relationship when nothing about it was usual in any way, but Emma had always viewed them as husband and wife. They lived together (when Flint wasn't off pirating, at any rate) and were faithful to each other, and had been for such a long time as to put most actually married couples to shame. Flint must be the only captain on the island who didn't spend any of his takings on whores or painted women. Simply went home to Miranda's bed and took off his armor and breathed, just for a little while. She and Thomas still lay at the heart of everything he was and did. For all his danger and his trickery and his deceit, that at least was the one fixed point that never changed.

"I am rather disappointed," Miranda said now, softly. "As I told you before, I _was_ hoping to have you all to myself for a few days. Between the _Urca_ project and now this, I am yet again being denied my chance."

"It will be better soon," Flint promised, his callused thumb running lightly over her palm, as her fingers closed over his. "Once we get the Jacobite money and the Spanish gold, I'll be able to afford a fortnight on the beach at least, let the crew have some fun with their takings and hope they don't spend all of it in one drunken night." He looked up at her with a wry, tender smile. "I'll be here with you then, the entire time. You can tie me down to make sure."

"I'll hold you to that." Miranda raised his hand to her lips and kissed it quickly, then stirred, remembering their audience and looking over at Emma. "Well then. If this is the course of action we've decided on, there's no use sitting and waiting. If you'll allow me to gather a few things, we can be on our way."

Flint and Emma agreed, waited while she prepared to go, and were left with the question of which ship she would travel on. Flint would obviously prefer the _Walrus,_ as aside from the obvious benefits of having his woman on board, it might keep tamped down any lingering rebellious sentiments among his men. Miranda had a way about her as to rebuke even the most rowdy and fractious ruffians, as well as being a well-bred lady, and even most pirates had some sense that it was poor form to behave badly in front of one of those. Emma likewise would prefer the _Blackbird,_ as she didn't want Flint to get too comfortable, and besides, aside from Merida, her female company was almost nonexistent. As well, while she didn't want to make Miranda choose between her and Flint, she also wanted it clear that they were still allies and partners, and that she would hold Flint to his word when he promised that this was to ensure they minded their manners and honored their commitments.

Miranda must have been thinking along the same lines, as she emerged in her traveling clothes and announced that she would make the journey to Jamaica on the _Blackbird._ It was plain that Flint was not happy with this, but as they couldn't really have much of the privacy they wanted on the _Walrus_ anyway, and as he already owed Emma a rather substantial favor, he was forced to take it with good grace. He offered his arm to Miranda for the walk back to the ships, as they veered down the steep bluff path and skidded onto the beach at the bottom. They rowed out to the _Blackbird_ first, and he saw the ladies aboard with something that almost passed for gallantry. It was times like this when Emma wished she could like Flint more than she did, even if he was sure to shortly do something that reminded her why this was a terrible idea. Despite their travails and their differences, Miranda's love for him had never wavered, and as Miranda was not the kind of person who spent her heart or her loyalty blindly or undeservedly, the man beneath the mask must still have a scrap of his good soul. But when he so steadfastly refused to show it to anyone except her, knowing the cost of vulnerability, it barely mattered anyway.

Emma gave Miranda a hand over the side as her crew blinked in surprise, not expecting their aristocratic female passenger. Everyone nodded respectfully, however, as Miranda's role in Emma's life was well known, and Emma took her to the captain's cabin, insisting that she have the good quarters. Then there was work to do seeing that the course was set and they were ready to depart – the _Blackbird_ needed to be careened soon, hauled up on a beach and well scraped, but they didn't have time for that now, and it wasn't any more likely to sink them then the rest of their damages – and thus avoiding any prospect of a delicate conversation. But once they were under sail, she didn't have anything more to do, and the rest of the crew was busy dividing up the Spanish treasure, Emma found herself alone with Miranda nevertheless, and the question hung inescapably over them. As gently and tactfully as possible, but likewise making it clear that she would not take evasion for an answer, Miranda said, "So where is Lieutenant Killian Jones?"

"I. . . don't know." Emma looked at the map, which she didn't need to do, and made a show of spinning the compass, which she also didn't need to do. "We. . . I left him, in the skirmish at the wreck site. He's most likely on his way to Antigua. To get his brother and. . . I don't know what else he's planning to do. We fulfilled our obligations to each other, we're done."

Miranda gave her a long look. "Are you?"

"Of course we are. I'm likely never going to see him again." Emma could feel her cheeks heating, and tried to force it down. "Or if I did, he'd be back under the Navy's thumb, and it wouldn't go well. They'll take it personally, that I escaped. I've become quite a prize, now."

"A man who is willing to turn pirate for you from the Navy, even in pretense, isn't one who usually goes back," Miranda said quietly. "Take it from me, I have some experience."

She did, at that. Emma bit her tongue, but the words forced themselves out of her anyway. "How do you. . . how do you do it? With Flint? He was one of them too, but he left when they broke his heart, and now. . . the two of you, his darkness, his danger. . . how can you build a life with someone like that? How have you?"

Miranda smiled, very faintly and very sadly. "James has demons and shortcomings beyond count, yes," she said. "Sometimes they've mounted to such a place where I thought there was nothing left of him. But there still is, and there always has been, and we are all the other has. I don't stay out of pity, or thinking I need to nursemaid him. I stay because it would be as strange for me to leave him as cutting off half of myself. I need him, his anger and his rage and his war against the world included, for the part of me that will never be able to take up cannonade and cutlass and fight back against the men who did this to us. I want to hurt them as sorely as he does, believe me, but I am not fashioned to be a pirate captain, like him or like you. And in turn, he needs me. He needs the moments of solace, the peace in the garden, the nights in bed where Captain Flint can leave, and James McGraw return, in the quiet darkness before the dawn. We give that to each other. We're not going to leave each other, or Thomas, behind. And one day, he still believes, if he fights long enough and hard enough, we can have a little house together, count ourselves avenged, and grow old together. There are far worse things to believe in, my dear. There are, though I know oftentimes you and everyone cannot see it, far worse men."

Emma had no idea how to respond to that. "But isn't it dangerous?" she said after a moment. "To love him? To keep trusting in that dream, after everything else that's happened?"

"Dangerous?" Miranda's eyes crinkled in amusement. "I daresay that's a start, yes."

"It just. . ." Emma searched for the right words. "Seems easier. To be alone."

"Doubtless it does," Miranda said gently. "Especially in a world such as this one. It takes a great deal of courage to choose otherwise. And so, if Killian Jones – "

"This isn't about Killian Jones."

"Isn't it?" Miranda arched an eyebrow, gracious but patently skeptical. "Some other Navy lieutenant-turned-pirate, whose darkness you both fear and desire, is under discussion now?"

Emma flushed, having been caught out squarely. "All right," she said after another moment, cheeks warm. "I just. . . I can't shake him. It feels like some part of him is still inside me, and I can't get it out. And that's no good, and there's no smart reason for it to be, and I. . ." She trailed off. "I'd really rather just forget the whole thing ever happened."

"Because you actually want to forget him," Miranda said, "or because it would be easier?"

The heat on Emma's face deepened. Scrambling for a way to change the subject, she said, "Would you like some supper? I can have it brought up."

Miranda's eyebrow remained arched, her gaze steady, until at last, excruciatingly, she nodded and looked down. "Supper would be pleasant," she said composedly. "And in my opinion, the Caribbean – for the Royal Navy and for pirate ships alike – is rather a smaller place than you'd expect. You may see him sooner than you think. And when you do, I don't suppose I need to tell you that you will need to make a choice, and this time, it will be no game."

* * *

The wind and sea remained favorable, and they made steady southward progress to Jamaica, uneventful except a harrowingly close shave with a French Naval frigate in the Saint-Domingue passage. Emma was very much hoping to avoid any more sea battles, due to the _Blackbird's_ current precarious state, and they put up all the canvas they could carry and ran hard until the other ship finally dropped away astern. By the late afternoon of the second day out from Nassau, they had glimpsed distant blue mountains shrouded in haloes of windswept cloud, the green terraces of the coffee and sugar fields, and then, the familiar docks and crowded, crooked streets of Kingston. The burned slave market, by the looks of things, had not been rebuilt, and Emma felt a flash of fierce pride. She couldn't decide whether she wanted Lord Archibald to have figured out the precise responsibility for that or not. On the one hand, he might hold a grudge and/or be inclined to hand them in for it. On the other, she had already approached him for the ten pounds of Killian's ransom under the pretense of calling off the dangerous Captain Swan, who would wreak havoc unless put in check with suitable financial inducements, and a little terror to keep Lord Archibald awake at night was not a bad idea. That way, at least, he would certainly think twice about spurning them again.

Since two obviously pirate ships were not going to try to sail right past the _Diamond_ and the _Jamaica_ in Kingston harbor, sedentary and useless as they might be, they rounded the headland to Emma's anchorage from her previous visit. This time she was not going to pose as Emma White, but she still felt an odd flash of déjà-vu. Last time she had crossed paths with the Jones brothers in Lord Archibald's office, when they had arrived unexpectedly, and it was quite ridiculous to expect any such thing to happen again. Though if, as she had thought, they had decided to set out to arrest a treasonous governor, and made it here while the three of them were still wining and dining Lord Archibald, she and Flint would fall into their hands like ripe plums. Miranda's fate, while she might escape the noose, was not likely to be much more lenient.

 _No. Still not the time for this._ The two ships dropped anchor, she deputized Will to keep an eye on things in her absence, and wondered who Flint had appointed for the task aboard the _Walrus –_ Silver, much as he loathed the man, had at least tangibly demonstrated his loyalty, and might be challenged to prove it again. Flint, Miranda, and Emma themselves took the inconspicuous route into Kingston. Flint and Emma, the pirate captains of the bunch, had changed into something more respectable, so they were not immediately identified and suspected as such by the general public long before they ever got to Lord Archibald's, and it was hard to tell who was more ill at ease – Flint in his gentleman's coat, buckled knee breeches, and fancy stockings, or Emma in her corset and gown and brocaded slippers. At least she had recent experience with this getup, and it would certainly be the clothes in which Lord Archibald had seen her last, but she'd still feel far more comfortable walking into this situation in something she could properly fight in. A buckled-on sword would ruin the illusion, but she had nonetheless strapped several daggers to her stocking garters. Like hell would she go completely unarmed.

They headed up the hill to the governor's villa and presented their credentials. Flint and Miranda were doing their best to appear nonchalant about momentarily coming face to face with a Hamilton, but their anxiety was evident in the way Flint's fingers drummed restlessly against his leg, and Miranda held onto his arm so tightly that her knuckles were going white. Emma herself was plenty anxious, for different reasons, but they waited in silence until the manservant reappeared and told them to enter. They passed through the rattan doors, and into the office.

"Miss White," Lord Archibald said, after a moment of bemusement. "An unexpected pleasure. I surely did not think to be seeing you so soon. And your. . . companions?"

"Actually," Emma said. "I regret the necessity of my deception earlier, but it was unavoidable." It gave her a brief turn to hear the words Flint had used to describe his murder of Gates coming out of her mouth so easily, but she pressed on. "My name is not Emma White. When I came to you with Captain Liam Jones, under the pretense of acquiring ten pounds to buy off Captain Swan, that was likewise not entirely true." She reached into her corset and tossed him one of the golden doubloons, which landed on his desk with a heavy smack as Lord Archibald goggled at it. "There's for the repayment of what I owe you. You see, _I_ am Captain Swan. The pirate."

Lord Archibald kept blinking, as he was well aware that she was certainly not about to march up to him and openly declare herself a traitor without a considerable counterpunch to come. She could see his head whirring, trying to reassess all of his previous interactions with her and if he had inadvertently compromised himself, revealed too much, until he finally managed to restore his noncommittal politician's face. "You? Captain Swan? You don't look. . . quite the sort."

"Oh, I know." Emma took a step. "But we're here today to extend the hand of friendship. Permit me to present my companions. Captain James Flint and Lady Miranda Hamilton, the widow of your late cousin, Lord Thomas. You will have heard of Flint."

Indeed, Lord Archibald clearly had. He blanched slightly, as if unsure what to do at the fact of this villain standing here unguarded in his very place of residence, and his eyes darted back and forth between them. "Lady Miranda? I always wondered what became of you after you vanished from London. This is not one of the options I would have considered."

"I imagine not." Miranda was impeccably courteous, but cool as ice. "Yet it is good to see a kinsman, after such a long time away. May we sit, my lord?"

"Ah – yes, yes, please do." Lord Archibald waved a distracted hand, still trying with all his might to work out their probable angle. No need to leave him in suspense for long. "We all do mourn my cousin's loss, he was a good man. Nonetheless, have I not. . . heard of a certain rumor that his death in an asylum was because he was driven mad by the grief of discovering that his wife and his best friend had betrayed him with their scandalous affair? If so, the kinsman's face you saw, madam, might have been your own husband's, if not for your grave misjudgment." He glanced at Flint. "And you, sir, would scarcely seem to have any shame about it."

Flint was clearly tensed almost to exploding, but he kept his temper and answered civilly. "I daresay you have heard half a thousand rumors, my lord, none of which are true or pertinent to our presence here today. Captain Swan and I are partners, the strongest coalition on Nassau, and that doubloon she gave you is just a taste of what you stand to gain if you are interested in working with us. You see, we know a few things about you as well, Lord Archibald. We know that you sent your privateer, Henry Jennings, to plunder the Spanish shipwrecks, and that furthermore, you intended to use these proceeds for a specific and traitorous reason. To send them not back to Spain, nor to King George in London, but rather to the Catholic pretender, James Stuart, in hopes of funding his attempt to take back the English throne. So, then. I wonder. Do _you_ seem to have any shame about it?"

Lord Archibald opened his mouth very wide, kept it that way for several seconds, and then shut it with an audible click, clearly recognizing that he had set the trap for himself and Flint had expertly steered him directly into it. Emma hid a smile; it was so enjoyable to see Flint bedeviling people who actually deserved it. Even Miranda looked briefly gleeful, before catching herself. The three of them looked expectantly at the governor, who was still performing a splendid guppy impersonation, before once more belatedly regaining command of himself. "Those are very serious accusations, Captain Flint. Surely you would not lodge them, and to my face no less, on the basis of hearsay and malicious rumor alone?"

"Indeed," Emma said. "We wouldn't. Which is why I'll ask you to explain why I witnessed Henry Jennings at the wreck site with my own eyes, firing on the vessel I was aboard at the time." She leaned forward. "I can describe his ship, if you like. Large sloop, two-masted, good firepower for its size. About twenty guns. I think the name I saw was _Bathsheba._ Jennings is tall, fair-haired, and wears a good coat. He's clearly no desperate bilge-rat grubbing for a better life, but has been well-funded, by you, to carry out his activities in hopes of establishing a Jacobite shadow Navy in the Caribbean. Am I missing anything?"

Lord Archibald still had nothing clever to say to that, and was clearly wondering if it was too late to give back the doubloon and bundle them straight out the door. After a moment he said, "So even if that _was_ true, what on earth would you want with me?"

"It's simple." Emma shrugged. "As has been well established, you're willing to pay pirates to make them your friends. We do want to be your friends. We'll swear loyalty to James Stuart, if that's what it takes. Clearly you don't want to pass up an opportunity to recruit the two strongest pirate captains on Nassau to your cause, do you?" This was a considerable stretch of the truth, as no one would rate her one of the strongest on her own, but pairing with Flint provided quite the upgrade, and she wasn't as tenuous as she used to be, either. After recent events, she was very much growing into her claws, and he still could be deposed, or worse, if his crew turned against him again. As long as she was his guarantor, she was plenty powerful.

This was evidently not where Lord Archibald had foreseen this conversation going, but he also couldn't refuse out of hand. Tellingly, he had not yet denied that he was in fact a Jacobite, or that he had sent Jennings to steal Spanish gold for James Stuart. Either of these truths was enough to get him arrested and charged with high treason, hauled back to England in chains, though his status as a wealthy, well-connected nobleman would probably spare him execution. Likewise, he had not missed the gist of these manipulations. "And in exchange for your cooperation, I would make a substantial. . . demonstration of my trust in you? Of the fiduciary sort?"

"Indeed," Flint said. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying watching the governor squirm. "You might have the captains of the _Diamond_ and the _Jamaica_ paid off so as not to interfere in your business, Lord Archibald, but what if another were to happen along? The _Scarborough,_ say? I can assure you personally that Captain Hume is not nearly so forgiving. If he was to hear a rumor of your disloyalty, he would be certain to investigate. You might want our protection then."

"I am only fighting for the true king." Hamilton eyed them haughtily. "Is anyone going to tell me that that crashing Germanic bore, who knows little about England and cares even less, is the rightful king? The Stuarts have ruled Scotland since the days of Robert the Bruce's grandson, and England since the death of Queen Elizabeth. It is not just to see them dispossessed. You, Captain Flint, should have sympathy for the dispossessed. If nothing else."

"Oh," Flint said. "Believe me, I do. Which is, as I said, why we're willing to make common cause with you. Do you want it or not?"

Lord Archibald hesitated as long as he dared. Then he said grudgingly, "Yes."

"Good. Wise place to start. So we can – "

At that moment, however, Flint was interrupted – not by Lord Archibald, not by Emma, but by the abrupt ingress of a harried-looking servant. All four of them started around, and Lord Archibald clearly took a very dim view of this impolitic interruption, but a look at the man's face stopped whatever reprimands he had been about to utter. Instead he said, "What?"

"My lord." The servant's face was grey. "We're under attack."

* * *

Killian Jones – or no, really, that was no longer him, some hollow and feeble echo of the man he used to be, the future he had foolishly dreamt of, _Captain Hook –_ had not known it was possible to enjoy anything as much as he had enjoyed sacking English Harbor. As he had predicted, the half-dozen Navy ships at anchor there had been asleep, safe in Antigua's lulling cocoon where they knew no pirate would ever come near, and he had managed to take them completely and utterly off guard. _Fight_ was not even a fair word for it; it had been an out-and-out slaughter. The _Jolie Rouge_ sailed in, chose her position – after all, she still looked like a Navy ship herself, nothing to raise the alarm – and then opened up with full broadsides both port and starboard. Not just cannonballs, but chain shot, to take out masts and inflict maximum damage. Then, once the ships were foundering, once the air was full of the screams and chokes of drowning and wounded men and the crack of shattering timbers, as bells were ringing in wild alarm in Fort Berkeley and redcoats were rushing toward the shore, Hook ordered a change in tactics. Anything that could take a flame was set alight, launched from makeshift catapults, and into the boats of the oncoming soldiers. The sound they made as they went up like Roman candles was like the sweetest and maddest wine he had ever tasted. _Burn, you bastards. Burn._

He had left one frigate afloat, and they closed in on it, threw grapnel-hooks to pull alongside, and poured over the edge, yelling and shrieking like banshees. They cut the throats of the crew or tossed them overboard, then raided the ship for its guns, using hoists and pulleys to transport the cannon aboard the _Jolie Rouge._ They didn't get the full sixty back, as the frigate was only carrying fifteen, and five of those were too cracked or rusted to use. Still, fifty was a far stronger complement than anything else currently operable in the Caribbean, and combined with the fact that his men were trained and drilled in military precision, they were close to unstoppable. Combined with the fact of how spectacularly they had just broken the neck of the Royal Navy's headquarters in the West Indies – this was unprecedented, as even during the war, Antigua had never been attacked or seriously threatened – the only real opposition to them was the _Scarborough,_ and even Hume might think better of taking this fight head-on.

Hook stared at the burning debris, the mouth of the harbor bearing a strong resemblance to the mouth of hell, Navy ships sunk or sinking, men still dying noisily in the water, on the broken boards, on the boats, the morning reeking of the black smoke that must be seen like a pillar for miles around, and knew with something close to ecstasy that this was it, that he would never have to put the beast back in its cage again, that the darkness was here, holding out its arms, and he could plunge under gratefully, and fall. Let it loose, let all of it. Let it sear and char and scorch. Let it have whatever it wanted. No reason not to. No reason at all.

The burning of English Harbor, however, was just the first step. Leave Antigua in smoking disarray, having lost its entire Naval garrison at once, and leave it quaking in its boots for his return in a fortnight or so, after he paid a little visit to Jamaica first. That was the economic heart of the British Indies, the seat of its second-most-powerful official, and there were the _Diamond_ and the _Jamaica_ stationed there; he needed to destroy those too. As well, Lord Archibald was Jennings' master, and Lord Archibald was going to suffer for it. For Jennings himself, and Gold, and the rest, a longer and slower death was in the cards, after everything else had toppled first.

Hook thought in passing about Liam, about whether it was worth it to go ashore and try to find him, but Robin had said that Regina was looking for him, and with the apparent end of the world on their doorstep, it was doubtful whether the authorities would have the remotest thought to spare for hanging one of the last Navy captains they had left. Besides, he was still so angry at Liam that he didn't want to see him just now – or possibly ever again. He wouldn't let him die, but he wasn't going to save him right now. Regina bloody Mills had her talons in him, he'd be fine. Let the two of them run off together. Pair of liars like that, they suited each other.

And so, when the destruction was complete, Hook ordered them to make sail directly for Jamaica. It was a quick trip on the back of the trades, though still not one that could be made in a day or even two, and he wasn't even sure how long it actually was, because he spent it lost in a haze of rage and grief. He didn't know how many men he had killed back on Antigua, but it was quite a few, and yet it barely felt like enough, as if it was only a drop in a vast, bottomless bucket. As if he could quite easily kill quite a few more, and have no idea how to stop or restrain himself or do anything apart from destroy. That, however, was their fault. They had made him their perfect enemy, their private nemesis, their own downfall. He knew everything about them, and he hated them so much that he could no longer remember how to breathe.

It was close to dusk when they finally drew into sight of Kingston harbor. As they had not stopped on their wild plunge to repaint the ship black (that was something they'd have to get around to, but not quite yet) and because he had not yet ordered the black flag run up, they still appeared to be the same HMS _Imperator_ that had visited here not long ago, and they were permitted into the bay without challenge. Hook took a long look at the docks, the unwitting people going about their business, and wondered if he could afford to kill them too, just for being in the way. After all, he had killed most of the Navy sailors in the entire West Indies just a few days ago, but those were combatants, soldiers, lawful targets. These were innocent citizens. He didn't want to do it, perhaps he should –

And then, as he was standing on the deck, stump throbbing in its brace, half-delirious with the flush of the lingering fever, almost on the verge of calling it off and finding another way to take down the _Diamond_ and the _Jamaica,_ he saw a merchant beating a small boy, some other fat fuck being carried in a sedan chair by four Negroes with collars around their necks, and a gang of Indians with tied hands being marched aboard a ship. With that, his momentary impulse toward mercy blew out like a candle in the wind. _Fuck_ these fucking people, and the slavery and brutality and bondage they built their lives on. They all deserved to die. Every last one.

"Load the guns." He turned away, grinning rakishly. "It's time to give Lord Archibald a little welcome-back present, lads. A very, very special one."

* * *

As they stared down at the ship in the harbor below, its cannons booming in relentless volleys, sending up explosions of rubble and flame wherever they struck – it was impossible, this was _Jamaica,_ things like this didn't happen here, the guns weren't stopping, they weren't stopping – Emma felt, for a moment, very seriously, as if she might faint. She was not prone to swooning in the ordinary or even the extraordinary course of events, but this was neither, and she kept blinking furiously, as if it would make this go away and she would wake up, or something would otherwise happen to tell her that she wasn't seeing what she knew exactly that she was seeing. Flint, who had also had too-close-for-comfort inspection of the _Imperator_ in recent days, had also picked up on it, and he swiveled to stare at her. "Bloody fucking hell. Isn't that – ?"

"Yes." Emma's chest felt as if a giant iron fist was squeezing it. Miranda's words jangled madly in her head. _A man who was willing to turn pirate for you from the Navy, even in pretense, isn't one who usually goes back._ But Killian couldn't possibly know she was here, or be interested in seeing her even if he somehow found out. Perhaps it wasn't even actually him, but someone had taken the ship – Jennings had done something, this couldn't be –

They could now see boatloads of men coming ashore, yelling and howling and firing muskets and pistols, as the terrified citizens of Kingston fled in all directions, church bells boomed the alarm, and as the _Diamond,_ the larger of the two Navy frigates, tried a retaliatory salvo, it was hit head-on by three whirling, screaming thirty-two-pound chain shots that snapped the mainmast like a twig. The previously placid summer evening was painted, in every direction, in fire.

They stared in horrified fascination a moment more, until Flint finally snapped to himself. "Get Miranda to safety," he ordered Emma. "I'm going to deal with this."

"What the – what are you going to do?"

Flint tightened his swordbelt. "Whatever I have to."

"Wait – Hook, if you find him – Flint, please, the captain, his name is Killian Jones, I want to talk to him – "

"This does not look like a man in the mood for talking." Flint's teeth flashed in an utterly grim smile. "And I likewise have some authority on the subject, as you might imagine. I'm not too interested in trying to get through to him long enough to be reasonable. If what has happened is what I think has happened, he needs to be stopped. I'm not in the market for another rival."

"No, Flint, James, please, listen to me, _listen to me!_ You owe me. You owe me! If nothing else, we need to know what _has_ happened, we need him alive, we need information!"

"I don't see that we do. I said, get Miranda to safety, or – "

"James." Miranda's voice wasn't loud, but it snapped his head around like a whip. "Do as she says."

Flint stared at her for a long moment, as if not quite sure he had just heard her correctly. He looked very much as if he would like to refuse, but as ever, when it came to her, he didn't. "Fine," he snapped. "If I get my hands on him, I won't kill him. Entirely. Now _go!"_

As another thunderous volley echoed up the hill, and the first boatloads of the landing party were hitting shore, Emma and Miranda did not need telling twice. They whirled around and crossed the gardens of the governor's villa as fast as they could in heavy skirts – Christ, she knew she should have paid attention to her instinct to wear breeches – and out the postern gate at the far side. Shouts were spreading through the streets, leaving Emma to consider dementedly that whether on her own instigation or someone else's, she was clearly never destined to have a peaceable visit to Jamaica. If she could get them to the cave where she had had Will and Macintosh hide Killian last time, they should be safe. God. What had happened, what, what, what? Was it because of her, was it because of Liam, was it because of Killian himself? Something even worse? Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

They sped up, reaching the city limits and plunging into the jungle beyond. The path was steep, slick, and muddy, and Miranda lost her footing, crashing to hands and knees as Emma slowed down to haul her back up. Then they kept on running, twigs and twisted branches tearing at their skirts, until they made it to the clearing, crossed it to the cave, and ducked inside, breathing like an entire cattle stampede, clutching at each other in the gathering dark. The air smelled like smoke. The cannons boomed again, deep and distant, like the breaking of the world.

"You stay here," Emma managed, when she had gotten her breath. "I have to go back."

"Emma, no. You can't. I won't let you put yourself in danger like that, not when – "

"If it was James doing this – if you might be able to get through to him – would you? Would you at least try?"

Miranda stared at her for a long moment, both of them hearing the openly desperate tenor of her words, the way she hadn't been able to deflect or otherwise pretend, her consuming need to get back there and know the extent of the damage – and more than that, what might have become of the man. At last, she inclined her head in half a nod.

"You'll be safe if you stay low." Emma got up, pulled out one of the daggers, and began hacking off the extra fabric of her skirts, thus to make it easier to run and fight. Then she pulled out the other and tossed it to Miranda. "Take this. I don't think anyone will find you here, but it doesn't hurt. Don't come out until the guns stop."

Miranda's face was white in the dimness. "And then?"

"I don't know. I don't know." Emma slid the dagger back into its sheath, ripping off a handful of large, waxy leaves and knotting them around her feet, a better protection than her flimsy slippers. God, she was never taking off her boots again. "I don't know what he's doing. Stay here," she added, for the third time. Flint would never forgive her if she got Miranda killed. Would never forgive anyone, in fact. "I'll. . . I'll see you soon."

With that, before Miranda could get in any accurate but unhelpful comments about how this was not at all likely, Emma headed back out, toward the glow of the burning city. It was bright enough for her to see her way, even though it was now past dark, and she thought of nothing but one foot after the other, slipping and struggling, as she made back for the gates, and inside.

It was complete chaos. Men – pirates – were fanning in every direction, shooting and shouting, even more than her own efforts had managed during the attack on the slave market, and she didn't think of anything but getting to the docks, of seeing if she could intercept Killian in time. Whatever on earth happened after that, she couldn't imagine. It kept stabbing her, over and over, as she dodged and skidded through alleys, down the hill, and finally – heard the sound of swords, ran faster, couldn't be fast enough, couldn't –

She broke through at last, stopped dead, and saw.

James Flint and Killian Jones were going hammer-and-tongs on the docks, dueling back and forth in whirls and flashes of steel caught by fire, hacking and slashing and hammering. Both of them were clearly very experienced fighters, and it was a mesmerizing sight, as they were almost equally matched. The swords kissed and slashed and sparked down their edges as they both fought for advantage, footwork darting and skidding, leading the other in and then battling them ferociously back. But what was that on Killian's left hand – no, it wasn't a hand, it was a –

And in that instant, not daring to shout in case she distracted one of them fatally, the night in flames around her, and the _Jolie Rouge_ still sounding its guns behind her, the two of them entangled in mortal combat in front of her, somehow and terribly, Emma Swan understood.


	16. XVI

**-XVI-**

For that frozen moment, as the world was firelight and shadow and everything balanced on the edges of the flashing swords, the two men's teeth bared in snarls as they remained locked at the center, all Emma could see, morbidly, was the beauty of it. Flint's eyes like emeralds, Killian's like sapphires, blazing in the dimness as they circled each other, then lunged again, a pair of rival lions battling over a kill. Flint forced Killian backwards with a succession of heavy, crashing blows, ducked as Killian viciously swung his hook at him, then caught it on his sword with a screech and a ribbon of sparks and slammed it up into the wall of the pier, hanging him out like a fisherman's catch to dry. Killian struggled and jerked, trying to pull himself free, and twisted his head aside just as Flint hammered the pommel at his face, clearly intending to break his nose. He got his right fist up, aimed a brutal crosscut at Flint's jaw, and managed to land it, almost; it certainly caused the older man to take a staggering step backwards and spit blood, just as Killian wrenched his hook loose and charged. But in this, he miscalculated. He ran straight into Flint's almighty backhand and went down hard, as Flint stamped on his vulnerable left wrist and he howled in pain. He made one more effort to get up, then dropped, breathing fast and raggedly. "Fine. Kill me, bastard. Get it over with."

"I'd very much like to, believe me." Flint, who was also on the gasping side after the fury and exertion of the clash, retrieved his sword and stepped closer. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Hook." Killian's bloody lips split in an insane smile. "Captain Hook. You are very much going to have to get to know me, I'm afraid."

"I've had quite enough of the pleasure of your company." Flint flicked the tip of his sword to his fallen adversary's chin, in case he was thinking of getting up and resuming where they had left off. "I will say, you know to make an entrance. Nobody's ever attacked Jamaica before."

"Nobody's ever attacked Antigua, either." Killian's grin widened. In this light, his eyes looked almost completely black, soulless and devouring. "Nobody's burned the entire Royal Navy headquarters, sunk their ships, killed their sailors, but I did that too. Every pirate in the Caribbean should be thanking me. I've given over rule of these waters to free men, toppled the empire. I killed them. I killed them." He laughed, close to a sob. "I killed them all."

Emma remained tense, ready to spring out and intervene if need be, but something held her back. As terrible as the scene was, as much as she was struggling in horrified disbelief to reconcile the young Navy lieutenant she had left behind with the raving pirate captain in front of her, she couldn't look away. _Oh God, Killian, what did they do to you?_ Blood was sheeting down his face from Flint's blow and from another cut near his temple, he was holding his maimed left arm awkwardly to his chest, and he looked, not to put too fine a point on it, like he'd been through literal hell and back. Yet as much as her fingers itched with the absurd urge to comfort him, she still wanted to see Flint's reaction. Killian couldn't be serious, could he? Burning the Royal Navy's _entire Caribbean fleet?_ They could get new ones out here, of course, but not easily, and not fast. Even if most of the ships in Antigua had been on permanent station instead of active patrol, they were still a formidable deterrent, and Killian had just swept them contemptuously aside like scattering pieces on a chess board. If, as he said, the rule of the West Indies had just been opened to pirates (and the Spanish), it was monumental.

For his part, Flint had gone very still. He could not fail to be hearing echoes of his own past in this, a spurned ex-Royal Navy lieutenant gone mad with anguish and betrayal, turning his coat, and dedicating himself to destroying them and everything they stood for, seeing nothing and no one as too dear to be sacrificed in the inferno of his vengeance. After a very long moment he said, in quite a different voice, "You burned Antigua."

"Aye." Killian looked up at him, one eye almost gummed shut with blood, with an expression that stabbed Emma in the heart. Despite the fact that they had been fighting almost to the death just minutes before, he was desperately hungry for Flint's approval. Wanted someone to tell him he had done the right thing, admired him, _saw_ him. "As you said. Nobody's ever done that."

Flint didn't answer, still regarding the younger man with one of his utterly inscrutable expressions. Then, slowly, he sheathed his sword. He reached into his deep coat pocket, drew out a flask of rum, and screwed it open. Raised it in an only slightly sardonic toast, threw back a deep draught, and handed it over.

Killian stared at him, clearly not sure what to make of this overture for peace, but eager for it nonetheless. He fumbled a drink, wincing as the alcohol stung his burned and bruised mouth, then took another. "Who – what's your name?"

"James." Flint's mouth twisted wryly. "I doubt your mother named you Hook."

Killian snorted an unconscionably bitter laugh. "Wouldn't know if she did. I – I'm Killian."

There was a brief silence as he took another sip from the flask, then passed it back to Flint, who did the same. Then without turning around, Flint said, "You can come out now, Swan."

Emma stiffened, not expecting to be called out, not thinking she had been seen in the chaos of their struggle. For his part, Killian went rigid from head to toe. He jumped to his feet and scrambled around with a wild look on his face, wheeling on Flint as if certain that he had orchestrated that moment of comfort and connection just to take him more spectacularly off guard with this – which unfortunately, knowing Flint, he probably had. "Swan?"He stared at her as she emerged reluctantly, hands up. _"Swan?"_

Emma bit her lip. "Killian, I – "

"Is this him? Flint?" Killian spun toward the older captain with a look of searing fury. "The two of you ended up right back together after all, then? Glad to see your plan worked to perfection! Were you just bloody standing there the whole time? Enjoying seeing me get my arse beat? Haven't I fucking suffered enough on your behalf, _Captain?"_

"Killian, listen – " Emma reached for him, but that sharp silver hook slashed up in front of her, backing her smartly off. "Killian, it's complicated, what – what _happened_ to you?"

"What does it look like?" He laughed, bitter and jagged as breaking glass. "Even you should be able to see that, shouldn't you? Aren't you happy? You got your wish. You were right. About them, about Liam, about everything. And don't bloody act like you care for me, or you're sorry about it. You're a pretty blonde distraction with a delightful added knack for stabbing me in the back and running away, and one I don't intend to entangle myself with anymore. You're dried up, dead, useless, and I'm done with you. Run off to your dear friend here, and have a wonderful _bloody_ life. I can't promise I won't sink both of you the instant I get the chance."

With that, he pivoted on his heel, stumbled briefly, and straightened, snatching his sword up and lurching away into the hellstorm of flames, a spectral black figure that turned even darker as he went. Emma stood there feeling as if she had been punched, until she finally got the wherewithal to round on Flint. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

"I didn't do anything." Flint wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his coat, which now looked nothing at all like a respectable gentleman's, and was in fact nearly as black as the one he usually wore. "You were there, so was he, and I gave him a chance to see you and say whatever he was going to. He could have welcomed you back to his bosom with outstretched arms, but to say the least, he didn't. There. Have I sufficiently proven the point that he's our enemy?"

"You utter bastard." Emma felt her fingers opening and closing with a strong desire to get them around Flint's throat. Her eyes stung, and not just from the smoke. "He didn't have to be."

"That was your lookout," Flint said. "Not mine. If you wanted him to be happy to see you, you had plenty of opportunities to decide otherwise."

Emma couldn't answer. Flint, damn his manipulative, charblack, unforgiving, violent, clever, clear-eyed hide, was right. She was furious at him for how elegantly he had arranged for Killian to see her at the exact wrong moment, when all the raw grief and fury and pain could come bursting out at once, but it was also true that her own choices to do everything that she had done were the reason he had reacted that badly. Flint hadn't held a gun to his head and made him say any of it; it had just come bubbling out, now that he was in a place where he no longer gave a damn what anyone thought of him, could finally lash back at her for everything she had asked of him. Whether or not it was entirely merited was beside the point. She had taken and taken, and now she had to pay.

"Aye," Flint said, seeing her face. "Now you understand. And where the hell is Miranda? If you left her behind somewhere, I'll – "

Emma was almost tempted to fire back that it would serve him right if she had ditched Miranda and run, given what he had just done with Killian, but that was a comparison she had no wish to draw, and if Killian himself was planning an encore, they had to get out of here. There did not seem much hope of allying with Lord Archibald now, as the idea was that they would protect him from an attack such as the one that had just happened, and that was even assuming Killian let him live out the night. The governor might have already fled, fearing for his safety. If he was gone, if Port Royal was converted back into its previous status as a pirate stronghold –

"I hid her somewhere safe," Emma coughed. "Come on."

The two of them battled through the smoke and grit and fallen stone, climbing over broken timbers and smashed pilings, as well as numerous staring corpses, toward the city gate and into the jungle. Things croaked and hissed and slithered in the stygian shadows, and they had to be very careful where they put their hands and feet; it would be no good to survive all this just to get bitten by some poisonous viper and anticlimactically keel over. However, they finally made it into the clearing, and ducked under the low earthen berm, thick with tangled vines, into the cave. Whereupon they were both nearly stabbed by Miranda, clutching Emma's dagger, until she realized in the nick of time that it was them. Then she dropped it and without a word, flung herself into Flint's arms.

He held her tightly, chin on her hair, until she stopped shaking. It didn't take long; even terrified to within an inch of her life and barely having escaped an unprecedented disaster in the history of the West Indies, Miranda Barlow was a woman of steel. She pulled her face out of his chest and looked at both of them, the whites of her eyes visible even in the murk. "What – _happened?"_

"I kept my promise," Flint informed her. "I didn't kill him. We really should get the blazes out of this fucking place."

"Aye, he _kept his promise,_ " Emma said, voice edged poisonously with sarcasm. "And if we aren't going to get the alliance with Lord Archibald, and the Jacobite money we promised your crew, then what, exactly, are we going to do?"

"The Hamilton gambit was your suggestion." Flint's voice was getting sleeker by the instant, which meant he was getting more dangerous by the instant. "You were the one who argued so passionately for it. If it's fallen through, thanks as well to _your_ old friend, that's something for you to consider, isn't it? Including the potential consequences?"

"James," Miranda snapped. "Under no circumstances are you going to blame her for this."

"Aren't I?" Flint's eyes flared. "Very well, she's right, I suppose not. I blame Captain Hook for this. Since we have decisively established that your tender desire to talk things over has failed, I don't see any reason why I still have to hold back from killing him. We already have Vane and Jennings and that fucking bastard Ned Low, we don't need another loose cannon only out to cause as much woe and anarchy as he possibly can. I do applaud him for burning Antigua, if it's true. But as much as you and everyone might disapprove of my extremes, at least I do it because I want to build something! Not just tear everything and everyone to the ground!"

"Aye, you're a real hero!" Emma stepped closer, getting in his face. "King James the Third, the real pretender to the throne, not James Stuart! You think you can rule over all of us, decide who gets to live and who dies! We're pieces to you, while you sit on high and move us to – "

"Why?" Flint shot back. "Why shouldn't I? Nobody else seems interested in the fucking job. Even the democracies of ancient Greece had men who led them, who shaped the will of the people, whose voice influenced the decisions they took. Why shouldn't the pirates' republic have the same? Why do we have to be ruled by a rabble of ignorant, drunken fools? I know we left our old lives behind because we didn't want to serve a king. Perhaps we never had the right king."

"If you think you'll arrive back on Nassau now and they'll take some of that Spanish gold and beat it into a crown for you, you're even more delusional than I – "

" _Enough!"_ The crack of Miranda's voice made them both jump. "God in Heaven, both of you, enough, this very instant! Do you hear me? You stand here scrapping like children in the schoolyard while the world is burning down outside! I regret I have no wooden spoon to paddle you with, if you are so insistent on acting as such! Not another word!"

Flint and Emma flinched back, glared heatedly at each other, and turned to Miranda with vaguely sheepish expressions. This, after all, was why they had agreed it was advisable to bring her along, though at the moment, they would very much like to continue the argument. But she did have a point that there were far better times and places for it, and they currently had more pressing matters at hand. Emma wondered if they should go back to the governor's villa and try a smash and grab, just to come away from this endeavor with _something,_ but if Killian was there, she was not at all sure she could stop Flint from killing him. And while she didn't _quite_ think he would do her actual bodily harm, she wasn't willing to test it so soon after their last fraught encounter. Besides, Lord Archibald's men would be crawling over the place, looking for any and all culprits, and would probably not stop to question them or ascertain their guilt before throwing them in the brig. They had to go. Empty-handed, or empty-headed, in that it would have been lopped off, and they would, in case it was not clear enough, be dead.

Some of the guns had stopped, though the night echoed with the sounds of fighting. They crept out of the cave and through the jungle, Emma thinking of how she had fled from this exact place last time, after Liam shot Macintosh and her ruse dramatically unraveled. She resolved to stay far, far away from Jamaica in the future, as she didn't think she would survive a third go-round. Assuming Lord Archibald came out of this still in control, even he would drastically rethink his policy of being so friendly to pirates. Executions were coming. In all likelihood, martial law. Every English citizen, from this night on, would be living in fear.

They made it back to the anchorage without being caught, though it was once more a close-run thing. As they rowed back out to the ships – which had heard the almighty uproar and were bristlingly on guard, torches lit and muskets pointed over the side, and Flint had to call out to make sure they didn't shoot – he said, "Miranda, you should come with me this time."

"Afraid of facing the crew with none of that Jacobite money?" Emma guessed. "Why would you put her in the way of that?"

Flint gave her a searing look. "Forgive me if I'm not eager to trust you with her well-being just now, considering _you're_ so eager to think so well of Hook. Or perhaps – "

"I would much rather swim home, than put up with the pair of you bear-baiting each other for another minute," Miranda said exasperatedly. "And James, for your information, I _am_ going with Emma again. You have a great deal of work to do with your men, entirely as a result of your own actions, and I'm not going to let you use me as an excuse not to. Do you understand?"

As ever, she was the only person in the world who could make the mighty Captain Flint look chagrined, and from whom he would shut his mouth and take his medicine. He was clearly still stewing, but silently, as they reached the _Blackbird,_ and Miranda climbed the rope ladder aboard. Before Emma could follow her, however, Flint caught her wrist. "So where _are_ we going? If it's true that the Navy can't stop us, we have quite a few choices. This is the season when all the important people start their voyages back to London with the year's wealth and takings, and with no Navy escorts, they're ripe for the picking. If we're going back to the Spanish wrecks, we could use a third ship. Take some reasonably well-armed merchanter, put a prize crew on it, and we can finish the job. Get all of the treasure."

"Perhaps," Emma said coolly. "However, we have recently spent quite a lot of time coming up with various schemes, and with the exception of the midnight raid, they are falling through at alarming speed. At the moment, we are long on rhetoric and short on results."

Flint gave her a look to remind her that he very much considered this current shortfall her fault, not his. "Then," he said, "I suggest we go back to what works. Get Miranda safely back to Nassau, then rendezvous with me at the wreck site. I don't care if they'll be waiting for us this time. I'll have a few new tricks."

"Oh?" Emma was not in the least sure she liked the sound of that. Flint's tricks were something to put the fear of God into the most inveterate sinner. "Such as what?"

"Never you mind that, eh?" He grinned, clearly enjoying the fact that he wasn't going to tell her. "As I said. Get Miranda home, then come find me."

Emma weighed whether it was even remotely worth it to try to find out if this trick had anything to do with Killian. Asking about him again, however, was a terrible idea, as it would just reinforce to Flint that it was a serious weakness on her part, and one without logical explanation. Besides, apples for apples, the _Imperator –_ or, as it clearly appeared to be now, the _Jolie Rouge –_ considerably outgunned and outmanned the _Walrus._ Flint might well have a devious scheme in mind, because Flint always did, but he might encounter stiff opposition putting it into practice. And if not, there was nothing she could do. She had to forget this. Had to.

"Fine," she said, eyeing him up and down. Held out her hand, and they shook. "I'll see you shortly."

With that, she climbed on board the _Blackbird_ herself, as Flint took up the oars and continued to his own ship. She busied herself with the usual tasks of setting sail, deflecting the crew's questions –she didn't feel like recounting the whole grim saga – and choosing a route further west that would hopefully avoid any overlap with Killian's exit trajectory. She tried to think where he would be going next. Also Nassau? If he turned up again now, with a trail of burned ships, sacked ports, and drowned sailors in his wake, a spectacular opening salvo completed and no longer hesitant to embrace the darker side of pirate life, Jack Rackham would be only the first in the stampede to join up. By the size of his crew and the strength of his vessel, Hook was already the most powerful pirate captain in the Caribbean, despite being one for less than a week. Even Eleanor Guthrie, much as she might deplore her delicate arrangements and alliances being so summarily overturned, would not be wise to protest.

Emma was occupied in her turbulent thoughts as they made the westward sweep before finally turning back east, having hopefully thrown off any pursuit – an old habit, as in this case at least, there was very unlikely to be any. She was exhausted, but she stayed on deck as long as she could, not wanting to go below and face Miranda, even knowing that she very much did owe her an explanation for what the bleeding blue blazes had just happened. She was still barely sure that she knew herself. Of all the ways she had foreseen this possibly going wrong, Killian returning as an outraged Navy agent of justice had certainly been on the list, maybe even at the top of it. Killian returning as a broken, vengeful man, a pirate and a renegade, determined to destroy everything he touched, had never been a glimmer. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

At last, as a fine, veiling mist was creeping over the water, she gave up, turned away, and went into the cabin. Miranda was sitting at the table, looking tired and worn, her hair coming down from its usual neat pins, and she glanced up only briefly at Emma's entrance. She didn't rush her, clearly understanding her desire to avoid the topic, but she finally said, "I did warn you."

"You did." Emma moved to take the seat across from her, loosing her own hair and letting it tumble over her shoulders. "Flint's right. This is my fault."

"You are not responsible for any man's choices." Miranda looked at her levelly. "Or anyone's, mind you, but particularly a man's. Whatever happened between you and Lieutenant Jones, you were not the one who made him into this, or the reason he came here. I won't allow you to take it on yourself."

"I. . . thank you." Emma didn't know if she believed that, but Miranda's quiet faith in her, her unswerving support, her refusal to let her carry everything alone, was a gift beyond price. "I'll do as Flint said, and get you home. After that – "

"The two of you will return to fighting properly without my interference?" Miranda completed wearily. "I do wish I could knock your heads together and put you in the corner until you thought the better of it. And while I doubt you cared for his way of demonstrating it, James is also right, you know. About Killian Jones. Let him go, Emma. Take whatever you need to from what passed between the two of you, and keep it safe. If you cross paths with him again, then do whatever you feel is right. But until and if that happens, let go. You have no responsibility to save him, and clutching hold can only drag you down too. Listen to me."

Emma paused for a long moment, then nodded. Neither of them felt in the mood for more conversation, and they undressed and got into bed in silence, the ship rocking steadily beneath them. She lay just beneath the surface of an uneasy doze, unable to drop under, even though Miranda's sleeping presence was comforting. She likewise had had a good deal riding on the successful accomplishment of the Hamilton alliance, and now without it. . . knowing nothing about the future shape of the entire Caribbean, or where they could reliably turn. . .

Eventually she must have managed to fall the rest of the way asleep, because they both woke early, with the ship enveloped in a dense, desolate fog that slowed them considerably. It was impossible to see more than a few dozen yards, or take a good heading, and while they lit their lanterns and searched for any hint of the _Walrus,_ there was nothing and no sound. They must have been separated over the night, or Flint had purposefully veered off on a new course. Not that she had expected anything different, but still. The day that man did anything to help anyone other than himself (or Miranda) was the day the moon turned blue and died from cold.

She peered through the spyglass at a blurred, indistinct shape almost dead ahead, which could be a low-lying cay or barrier reef; in which case, they would be advised to change course directly. But as they drifted nearer, she made out a mast and sails, and realized that it was in fact the _Walrus_ ; evidently they hadn't been as far separated as they thought (not that that changed any of her opinions on Flint). It was strange that they hadn't responded to their hail, but –

Wait. Two masts, not three. And a pirate banner, but a simple black flag, not Flint's dancing skeleton. A strangely familiar gun carriage, seven on the gun deck and four on the main.

This was not the _Walrus._

This was –

At that moment, the ship's starboard battery lit up with fire, blooming in the fog. Emma barely had time to scream at everyone to get down before it struck, sending splinters thundering from the bow and tearing through the foresail. The _Blackbird,_ already in less robust condition from her earlier damage, immediately slewed and luffed, losing speed. "Go below," Emma gasped to Miranda. "Go below, now!"

"Who is it?" Miranda refused to budge. "What do they want?"

"I don't know, I – " Emma twisted her head, trying to get a better look, but the debris and the fog made it almost impossible. She had a terrible feeling, however, from that first brief glimpse, and even as her crew was running to the gun deck, a second volley hit them hard enough to make the _Blackbird_ physically tilt beneath their feet, a sure sign that they were taking on water fast. She drew her sword and raised her voice to give the one order that a pirate captain never wanted, or expected, to give, as it was always the other way around. "PREPARE FOR BOARDERS!"

Leaving the cannons, the men scrambled for their own sabers and pistols, even as shapes started swinging on lines out of the murk, landing with whoops and hollers, the _Blackbird_ lurched again as grappling hooks caught hold of the railings, and they were drawn into deadly embrace with the phantom ship. But it was no phantom now, as their sides ground together and they swerved and plunged, as Emma threw out her non-sword arm to shield Miranda, as the fog parted on a tall dark shape striding as purposefully and casually as if for a Sunday constitutional in Hyde Park, jumping down onto the deck and –

"Good morning, ladies," Henry Jennings said, teeth bared in a shark's smile. "Sorry about the mess."

" _You,"_ Emma blurted, before she could stop herself. She recognized him well enough, but couldn't remotely understand what he was doing here. Had he been racing back to Jamaica, catching word that it was under attack? No, he couldn't possibly have heard that quickly. But they were still on a fairly direct eastern heading from Kingston, or they had been the last time she was able to take any measurements, and fairly close to the corridor the Royal Navy used between Jamaica and Antigua. Had Jennings been coming from the latter anyway? Guessed that Killian Jones, having so spectacularly put paid to one of the seats of English power in the West Indies, would then make for the other? Chasing him – but instead catching a far more valuable prize. If he didn't know it, they might, _might_ make it out. If he did –

"I regret that I have not had the pleasure of a personal introduction," Jennings went on. That was him – a gentleman of culture and manners, rich enough that he didn't need to turn to piracy to support himself, but whose soul was fed by the chaos and violence in a way not even Flint's was. "I have my suspicions, but I would like some more concrete confirmation. You are?"

"Go to hell," Emma said. "I don't have to tell you anything."

Jennings sighed, removed a heavy pistol from his jacket, cocked it, and shot Gaston, who had been about to brain him with an axe, neatly through the head. "No," he said, surveying the results with the air of a critical connoisseur, "I suppose you don't. Considerably _more_ messy, though, and I have plenty more to go down the line."

"How _dare_ you!" Miranda stepped forward despite Emma's efforts to shove her back, pulling her shawl tighter and looking into Jennings' demon eyes unflinchingly. "We are gentlewomen of Charlestown, and you will rue the day you – "

"Gentlewomen? Taken hostage by this motley band? I'm sure I can shoot a few more, if it would make up for your travail." Jennings pointed his pistol at Will. "I'll start with this one. He looks like he's incredibly annoying."

"Fuck yourself sideways, you putrid piece of pig shit," Will said. "Though even pigs have standards about what they eat, so that's a bit of an insult to their shit."

Jennings pulled the trigger, Will ducked, and the shot took out one of the windows of the cabin. Will lunged at him, trying to knock the gun out of his hand, but Jennings used it as a club, bashing him hard enough to send Will skidding off his feet. "You are unwise not to do this in a civilized fashion," he said, breathing hard as he straightened up, a lock of pale hair falling in his face. "One simple question. I'm looking for one Killian Jones, formerly of the Royal Navy, who burned English Harbor and all its ships after they made the mistake of thinking they'd sufficiently subdued him. I should have cut off his other hand at the same time, but they thought it was best to start small and work up. An oversight soon to be remedied, in any event. Anyone who has aided or sheltered him will meet his same fate. _What are your names?"_

Emma and Miranda exchanged a desperate look. It was clear that Jennings was not remotely fooled by their protestations that they were merely innocent women trapped aboard the pirate ship – Emma, after all, was wearing her usual clothes and had a sword in her hand, and he'd certainly heard her giving orders. He was also clearly willing to murder all her crewmembers one by one if that would induce her cooperation – Gaston was taking his last breaths on the boards, nobody able to move to give him the mercy that he had dispatched to Felix. With one more jerk and rattle, he went still.

"Very well," Miranda said icily. "This is Captain Emma Swan, whom you'd be wise not to cross. My name is Miranda Barlow, and my – my husband is James Flint, who I need not remind you of the same. We were just in Jamaica, we made alliance with Lord Archibald Hamilton, your own employer. As a loyal servant, you have a duty to escort us to him without harm, and permit him to – "

"Fuck Archibald Hamilton," Jennings said. "Sniveling cunt just like the rest of them. I can make far more money, and have far more fun, with a man who appreciates the full range of my talents – Lord Robert Gold. Did you have another suggestion, sweetheart?"

Miranda opened and shut her mouth, as that had been their only real chance – hoping that Jennings would demonstrate at least nominal loyalty to the man who had commissioned him as a privateer in the first place, and that their efforts to recruit Lord Archibald to their side had not been entirely wasted, even if it did mean what was sure to be an unpleasant return trip to Jamaica. But if Jennings had likewise decided to cut his losses and work for Gold, his own pirate captain instead of the Governor's lapdog, this had instead, impossibly, gotten even worse.

Turning her head as far as she dared, Emma caught Billy's eye desperately, trying to communicate to him without words. It was clear that Jennings was going to leave few, if any, survivors, and the only plan she could think of was, as usual, an incredibly dangerous one. If Billy jumped overboard, continuing his unfortunate streak of spending more time off ships than on them, and swam like hell, he could possibly hope that the _Walrus_ was close enough for him to be rescued, even if not to catch up in time. Take the risk of returning to his old crew, and hope that Flint's desire to rescue Miranda (and to a far lesser degree, Emma) would impel him to put aside all other considerations, and tear the world down stone by stone to find them. She would pay good money to see Flint's full destructive potential unleashed on Jennings. What he had said about cutting off Killian's hand, about working up – there was no pit in hell hot enough for him.

Somehow, Billy seemed to understand. He gave her a small nod, moving unobtrusively toward the railing, as Jennings' attention was still fixed on the women. No matter their recent and extensive disagreements as to the wisest course of action, supporting Flint's restoration, or Killian's pirate masquerade, he wasn't going to just leave Emma and Miranda to die at the hands of this villain. She prayed he could keep his wits enough to capitalize on his return from the dead, keep an eye on the crew, and not antagonize Flint too much. It might be their only chance.

"So," she said aloud, trying to keep Jennings distracted so he wouldn't notice Billy's exit. "My companion is right. I am Captain Swan. I don't know where Jones is, nor would I care if I did. So if you think you can get information from me, I'm afraid you're wrong."

"Am I?" Jennings studied her appraisingly, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Didn't I see this ship quite near the wreck site, at the exact time Jones' was? Not to mention the tale of one August Booth, who filled Lord Robert in on a fascinating episode where a pirate by your name – you, or your equally beautiful twin sister? – beguiled him into treason, with her feminine wiles and other feminine bits? I did hear all this, you know. Now that I see you, and am planning to see more, I can't say I blame him, _too_ much. I'd stab the Navy in the back for you too, darling."

Emma snapped upright. "Laying a hand on me," she said evenly, "would be most unwise."

"Or what, you'll chop it off? Considering what I did to Jones, that might be how you like them." Jennings jerked his head at his crew. "Bring the women aboard. The annoying git who likes to quip, the red-haired wench, and a few of the others; we do need a useful amount of hostages, and it'll look better for the hanging if there are several. Kill the rest and sink the ship."

"No!" Emma lunged forward. "No, it's a good vessel, it can be of use, it would be foolish to waste it. The men can sail it, they can follow your command. Don't – "

"I'm sorry, darling." Jennings grinned. "Ordinarily, you see, I wouldn't. But ordinarily, the entire Royal Navy fleet in the West Indies wasn't just burned by your friend Killian Jones, and I'm afraid that both of you have not even begun to pay for that. Now."

Emma, Miranda, Will, Merida, Macintosh, the Darling brothers, and a few others were hauled aboard the _Bathsheba,_ even as the rest of the _Blackbird's_ crew was shot where they stood, some of them still trying to fight back and being cut down twice as savagely. Emma's tears were blinding her, even as she struggled not to let them fall in front of their captor. She didn't see Billy. Had he gotten away, was he in the water again now, looking back at the full horror of the scene and knowing just what sordid story he would have to bear to Flint? God, let him make it, _please_ let him make it. She might not like Flint very much, but it was undeniable that he would tear apart everything in his way to rescue them. Yet if Jennings was playing an even longer game, trying to lure Captains Hook and Flint alike into his trap, using their women as bait –

Emma refused to buckle, as much as she wanted to. Kept standing straight as a ramrod as Jennings' crew lit torches, threw them onto the deck and among the bodies of her fallen men, as the _Blackbird_ was foundering so heavily that the sails on its spars were already in the water. It was like watching the leviathan of the deep be slain, as the men finished the job and swung back to the _Bathsheba_ with smug looks of satisfaction. They cut off the grappling hooks and the boarding lines and backed water, reversing clear of the burning ship. Salt stung Emma's eyes, her lips, her throat, even as Miranda clutched her arm ferociously. She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't turn away.

The _Blackbird_ fought as hard as she could for as long as she could, just like her mistress, but could not hold out forever. Her timbers blackened, her ropes snapped, her masts devoured, her sails charred, and her back was broken, as she gave up her struggle and began to sink beneath the waves. The flames rose into the fog like the almighty pillar that God had sent to lead the Israelites, but there was no promised land on the far side of this, no dream of better days. Emma was beginning to feel the same darkness that must be driving Killian right now, seeing their lives destroyed before their eyes by the same man, on the orders of the same overlord, Robert Gold. What had Jennings said? _I'm afraid that both of you have not even begun to pay for that_.

Well then. If that was so. By God and the devil, by the saints or the demons, whichever wanted to bear witness, all or none of them. Neither had he. Neither, in the least, had he.

* * *

It was a long time until the burning stopped. Even though he couldn't see anything, as English Harbor was twelve miles south on the other end of the island, Liam remained frozen at the window, watching the black smoke drift gently skyward like the chiaroscuro sketching of a Renaissance master in charcoal, an oddly beautiful thought for something that was so completely horrible. He couldn't shake the conviction that he knew exactly what was happening and who was responsible, and it punched the heart out of him, the breath, until he could do nothing, formulate no logical response or well-considered plan as was his usual habit, only swept along in the flood. God, this couldn't be happening, and yet it was, and he knew in his bones that it was his fault. _I should have told him. I should have trusted him. I should have. . . I should have. . ._ and yet, if learning the truth had sent Killian so catastrophically off the cliff, if he was right to keep it from him. . .

Regina tried once or twice to distract him, but gave up after he paid her no attention. At last, she said, "Well, your little brother is certainly proving he has more claws than everyone imagined, including me. He'll have to pay me back for murdering all my customers, you know. Unless you're interested in making some of it up in trade?"

Liam continued to ignore her. He couldn't shake the cold nausea in his stomach, the pounding in his head, and his half-serious belief that he should be out there too, even if it meant burning the Navy ships alongside Killian, lashing back against the institution that had saved their lives and given them command and a future, a ship, a purpose. But no, that was lunacy. He was in no bloody hurry to bow and scrape to them ever again, but destroying _all of it –_

He was only torn from his spellbound contemplation by the falling dusk, as smoke became indistinguishable from shadow, though the sullen orange glow on the horizon remained. His wounded shoulder ached like the devil and his throat was dry with thirst, yet he wasn't sure his legs would support him if he tried to get to his feet. His life had been destroyed just as completely, and as far as he knew, he was still destined for the noose. Perhaps that was what Killian felt, the queerly liberating status of a dead man who could no longer do anything worse and who thus no longer feared or respected any limitations or censures on his conduct. Liam understood that, at least. Give him a sharp sword and his enemies before him, and he doubted he'd consider himself overly constrained by his previous notions of honor, either.

Just then, startling both of them, there was a crisp knock on the door of the luxurious boudoir, doubtless one of the higher-priced rooms of Regina's establishment, where other Navy captains had passed pleasurable nights with equally high-priced girls. Regina's eyes went narrow, as she clearly was not expecting anyone and did not know who would be so audacious (and important) as to show themselves in here without a servant coming to ask for permission. Liam, however, had an idea, and he tensed, groping for an ivory corset-busk on the sideboard and ruing the lack of his sword or even a sharpened letter opener. If it was who he thought –

Regina reached for the door handle, but at that moment, the visitor opened it himself from the other side, casting a long dark shadow in the candlelight out of all proportion to his unremarkable height. He smiled a crocodile smile. "Good evening, dearies."

" _You_ _fucking son of a bitch!"_ Liam lunged at him, swinging the corset busk like an executioner's axe – it left a great deal to be desired as a weapon of awe and terror – only to be punched hard in his bad shoulder by James Nolan. He experienced a burst of pain so intense that it must have made him momentarily black out, as when he opened his eyes he was on the floor, Regina was standing over him, and Gold, Nolan, and the other bodyguard the governor had felt it prudent to employ were gazing at him like an insect they would very much like to squash. He lifted his head and spat weakly. "If you're here to hang me, just go ahead and bloody do it."

"Actually," Gold said. "Much as it pains me, we're not. You see, the events of today have, Captain, given you an unexpected reprieve. Your brother has gone not only mad but rabid, and took an unfortunately large proportion of our spare captains with him. Jennings has already gone after him, and you, I am sure, are now familiar with Jennings' standards of operation. If he gets his hands on your precious boy, I shudder to think what will become of him. Do I have your attention, dearie, or not?"

Liam spat again. Greatly as he wanted to tell Gold to fuck himself up every imaginable orifice and then some, the news about Jennings being on Killian's tail made him loathingly hold his tongue. "Yes," he growled at last. "Get on with it."

"Very well." Gold smiled. "I'm going to offer you a deal. Despite his best efforts, your brother did not sink _all_ our ships. He left one frigate afloat. Stole the guns, but we can spare a few from the forts and from the merchanters in St. John's that didn't get burned. If you take command of this ship, find your brother, and convince him to come with you by any means necessary, you'll receive a full pardon. After all, this isn't really your fault, is it? Your brother has made himself into the villain that the mob will enjoy seeing fall far more than you, it doesn't seem fair to die for his crimes, does it? What do you say?"

"You think I'll bring my brother back to be tortured and hanged by you animals, just to save my own skin?" Liam choked. "Go to _hell."_

"I thought you'd say that." Gold kept smiling. "Which is why, of course, that was not my full offer. Let me be clearer. The mob wants to see _Captain Hook_ hang, and they will. They don't know or care if it's Killian Jones or not. And right now, I imagine you must be feeling no small resentment against your traitorous carpenter, August Booth, who sold you both out and destroyed your lives, purely for a little extra pocket money. So that's my deal. Find your brother, stop him, bring him back here, and I will hang August Booth as Captain Hook in his place. You get your revenge, I'm rid of a potentially weak link who might turn on me if the price was right, and your worthless brother even escapes with his hide. Most of those ships were old and rotten anyway, a good fire to clear out the rubbish isn't the worst thing in the world, and now we can convince the Admiralty to send us some that can actually sail and fight. So, Captain? What do you say?"

Liam opened his mouth, then shut it. He hated himself for the fact that his first impulse had been to accept. No, _no_ , this was Robert Gold, his every promise came loaded with poison and loopholes and self-interest. After a moment, weakly, he said, "Then what? Am I supposed to believe you'd just let us leave and live happily ever after?"

"Well, no," Gold said. "Not entirely. You certainly wouldn't ever be permitted back into the Navy, and you'd both be transported as prisoners, somewhere far away from any further interference in my interests. But you _would_ live. You got out of slavery once, I imagine you could do it again. And as our good friend Mr. Plouton so helpfully illuminated, you are certainly no stranger to allowing people to die in order to save your brother. August Booth has done you a great wrong, so I can't imagine you bending over backwards to save him now. Your honor has always been a lie, Captain Jones. The only thing you love or do anything decent for is your pissant little sibling, and the rest of the world can go hang. Which, frankly, seems like a grave error in judgment to me, but we all have our inexplicable weaknesses. Strip Killian away, and you're just as ready to do terrible things as the rest of us."

"No," Liam said reflexively, thinking of his nearly ten years as captain aboard the _Imperator,_ how hard he had tried to command his men fairly and honestly, to amend all the evils done to him and Killian as boys. Knowing that their position owed itself to the deaths of the entire _Benjamin Gunn,_ that it had to be redeemed, knowing that it couldn't be. "No, you're wrong."

"So you're taking the moral high ground? Allowing Jennings to rip your brother limb from limb when he finds him, and sparing August Booth's life, simply because you're _such a good man?"_ Gold looked amused. "That's new."

"No! I. . ." Liam wrestled with his overwhelming desire to be able to do the same as Killian, to burn and burn and burn. Once more, as when Plouton had first offered him the infernal bargain back in Bristol, he found himself justifying it. Captain Silver and the crew of the _Ben Gunn_ had been no great loss to the world, not against Killian's life and their future. August Booth had in turn, just as Gold said, sold them out and betrayed them. Letting him die in Killian's place would be a twisted sort of justice. And for all that Killian was terrified to live without Liam, Liam was equally terrified to live without Killian. He didn't know what to do with himself, how to stand up, how to reason with his own existence if he didn't have Killian to look after, to protect. _Not that I've done such a bloody good job of that._ And if he did get his brother back now, he wouldn't be anything like the one that Liam had known all his life, tried to shield from the darkness. Not when the darkness had completely consumed him.

Still, though. He couldn't sit here in Regina's brothel and watch the world burn through the window, couldn't remain safe and idle while Killian was out there doing God knew what, chased by God knew who, especially that monster Jennings. He could still hear his brother screaming as Jennings' knife came down, as there was a raw, bleeding stump where a hand had been. There had to be a way. If he could reach Killian, intercept him, they didn't have to ever come back to Antigua. They could join forces. Run somewhere far, far away, and never return.

"Fine," Liam said at last, hating himself even more. "I accept your bargain."

Gold grinned. "Excellent, dearie. So glad you saw sense. Now if we can – "

"I'm coming with him," Regina said.

Both men swiveled to stare at her. "You what?"

"I'm coming with him," she repeated. "I have plenty of friends across the Caribbean, informants in every house of pleasure, connections to leverage. It will be far faster than him trying to hunt Hook alone. And besides." She smiled sweetly. "We wouldn't want any mistakes, would we?"

"No, indeed," Gold agreed. "I don't suppose I can forbid you. . . _if_ our interests are still aligned."

"Oh," Regina said. "They are."

"Good. Very well, you have until tomorrow to make any preparations you deem necessary. We'll fit out the frigate as a merchanter, as I don't suppose it is currently wise to draw attention as a Royal Navy ship. You'll be much faster than your old command, but much lighter on the guns, so do try to avoid a head-to-head battle. You can't come out well from it." He turned to go, beckoning to James Nolan and sidekick. "Have a wonderful night."

When the governor and his hired muscle had made their exit, Liam slammed the door so hard it shook, whirled around, and looked for any way of venting his frustration accomplishable within the confines of a silken, comfortable, gently furnished room in a high-class brothel. As the options were smashing the porcelain wash bowl and salver, and he didn't want to do that with Regina standing there and arching a cutting eyebrow at him, he settled instead for putting fist-sized dents in the wall plaster, repeatedly. "What are you looking at?" he growled. "Planning to come along and tattle on me to Gold too? I can do without that sort of bloody help!"

"No," Regina said. "You can't. And if you were listening to anything I said earlier, or it all got lost in that stubborn, self-righteous, self-pitying skull of yours, you'll have noticed that I said I wasn't going to let Gold get away with everything. If I hadn't volunteered, he'd have appointed someone like Captain Nolan to go with you, and then it would be _much_ more difficult for you to do what I suspect you're planning to do. Besides." She smiled again. "On the chance that your brother didn't actually kill Captain Swan, I'm not going to let anyone else have the pleasure."

Liam very much wanted to bark at her too, but as untrustworthy and vengeful and unsympathetic as she was, clearly interested solely in what she would get out of this and how to steer his troubles to serve her original murderous interests, she was his only godforsaken ally in the world, and he couldn't stand to go alienating those just now. He turned away and sat on the bed, shoulder still throbbing where Nolan had hit it. He would sell his damn soul for a drink, and he didn't even bloody drink.

Regina took notice of this. She hesitated, then went to the wardrobe, opened it, and removed a decanter of brandy and two glasses. She poured them each one, handed his over, and sat down next to him. "You know, this would be much easier if you were sweet with me, Captain. I don't think that's something you're unwilling to do. I can make it much more enjoyable for both of us. Come now." She moved to lay her hand alongside his. "Just a taste. You may find you enjoy my forbidden fruit."

"Let's admit I need your help," Liam said flatly. "And leave it at that."

"If you say so." Regina shrugged. "But if you think you'll punish yourself until we put your brother back on his leash, it will be a very long – "

"I'm not going to listen to you say those things about him." Liam took a deep gulp of the brandy, which tasted good enough that he took another. "To my eyes, the two of you seem cut from the same cloth in certain regards, so I'd be wary of throwing stones at him that could shatter your own glass house. I can understand that you loved Captain Colter, and are genuinely upset about his loss, so try seeing it the same for how I feel about my brother."

That once more surprised her. She raised her glass, and drank without another smart comment. Then at length she said, "I suppose I can admire you looking out for him. I often wished I had a sister, growing up. Or a brother. Anyone, really. It was often. . . very lonely."

"After what our father did to us, when Killian became my son as much as my brother, and when most sane people love their children more than their own soul, perhaps you can grasp why I won't give up on him." Liam took another drink. "Even if I'm not sure he wants it anymore."

"My mother was the same," Regina said unexpectedly. "She never abandoned me, but there was never anything I could do to earn her affection or approval without being twisted in her strings. My father did what he could, but it was. . . it couldn't replace it. I thought if I ever had children, I would do much differently, but. . ." She hesitated. "That came to an end a while ago."

"Oh?" At last, Liam was moved to look at her; she was holding her glass between her hands, with an uncharacteristically subdued expression. "Why?"

"My mother thought it imperative that I marry the right man and provide the family with the right sort of heir," Regina said coolly. "I took – steps to make sure it didn't happen."

Liam did not want to think about what vile poisons, what horrifying medical procedures, a young woman would have to undergo in an attempt to render herself deliberately barren, especially as any surgeon or midwife she approached for help would order her to go to church at once and repent of her wickedness for thinking to deny her husband the gift of children. Against his will, he found himself feeling sorry for her, not that it changed much of his overall impressions of her and her character and general ambitions. Quietly he asked, "Was this before or after you met Daniel?"

"After he died, and my mother had ideas about suitable husbands." Regina raised one shoulder in an attempt at a nonchalant shrug. "She lives in England, but that's too close for comfort. She could still sail out here one day and try to control me again, and I couldn't take the risk."

"So you damaged yourself, in a way you could control, rather than letting her do it." Although the circumstances were not exactly analogous, Liam could see a parallel to his own decision to fall on his sword, to selectively stain his own soul with a chosen sin, rather than enduring another day, another night, watching Killian fade. "Even if you wanted children?"

"Not as much as I don't want my mother anywhere near them," Regina said bitterly. "You're lucky your father's dead. I'm a grown woman with a most profitable business enterprise, and yet I still live in fear of her."

"I suppose you could take in an orphan," Liam said after a moment, awkwardly. "There are many of those. Urchins, abandoned waifs. If you wanted – "

"I run a brothel. Not a charity home. I'm not feeding and nursing gangs of pustulant guttersnipes from some misplaced excess of maternal affection." Regina's lip curled. "It would have to be a baby, someone I could raise from birth, who would feel as much like my own child as I could make it. Why, do you know somebody with an extra infant they don't want? Your brother spawn a bastard by-blow on some poor tavern wench?"

"No, of course. It was only a thought."

"Maybe when Captain Swan is dead," Regina said, after another pause. "When I know she is, when Daniel's ghost is laid to rest, when I can try to build a real future. Until then – " She lifted her shoulder again, dismissively. "It's hardly the time to think of it. Finish your brandy, Captain. We have quite a journey ahead of us, and many miles to sail. Good night."

* * *

The sun rose on a city that had been battered, burned, bloodstained, and beaten beyond all description, barely recognizable as the heart of English trade in the Indies, the harbor heaped with burned and slagged hulks and bodies floating in the dirty tide, stacked on the quays, and otherwise sprawled where they had fallen. In the history books he had read after joining the Navy, Hook had come across descriptions of what happened to fallen cities in the ancient and medieval eras after enemies took them, after they were sacked and devastated without mercy, and he felt reasonably confident that his treatment of Kingston could stand alongside such notorious partners. He had not called off the attack until everyone who looked like a merchant, soldier, or overseer was either dead or had run to hide and did not dare to come out, and while he had given orders not to harm women, slaves, and children, it was of course the first time his men had done this, and some of them might have gotten carried away in their enthusiasm. It was a strange thing, putting one's finger in the dike of so much pure savagery and vengeance, and then standing back to let it burst free. Even the redcoat garrison had fled their posts, after the _Jolie Rouge's_ men had so thoroughly mauled them on first encounter. _How the mighty have fallen._ It was intoxicating.

As such, the new-minted pirates were carrying aboard their spoils – jewelry, money, goods, wine, rum, and women – to enjoy the rewards of the night's work. Hook made no move to stop them, but he did intervene to order that several of said women who had clearly been taken by force should be released at once, and that any man who resorted to rape to get some post-carnage coitus would be keel-hauled and then, if he survived, castrated. There would be plenty of willing women, all they could fuck and more, waiting when they made their triumphant re-entrance to Nassau. Until then, they could take one properly, or wait.

For his part, Hook felt less than the ghost of the desire to engage in it himself. He kept replaying that shattering encounter with Emma earlier in the night, when he had almost let his guard down, almost believed in something again, almost wanted to be James' friend, and then was reminded in an instant that the world was not done pissing on him yet. Of course it had been all a ruse, the two of them working together to identify him at his most vulnerable, then twist the knife hilt-deep in his back. He hoped she was happy. He hoped she was _bloody_ happy. He was happy now, surely. He was happy without her. He was happy like this.

Happy.

So bloody, bloody happy.

When he had ensured that his orders would be followed in regards to the women, Hook made for his cabin, where he had sent two of the casks of rum, the top-quality Jamaican stuff that he now intended to indulge in as often as the urge presented itself. Not too much, of course. He was not going to become some sozzled fool, as one did not stay in command of a pirate ship, even a pirate ship that had become one under these exceptional circumstances and with a considerable degree of built-in loyalty, by being an idiot drunk. But he had every reason to use it to numb the pain, of whatever sort, until it became manageable, settled around him, grew familiar, and that was what he intended to do. Until then –

He opened the cabin door, and stopped short.

One of the sailors who had often tested him in the Navy days (they already felt like a thousand years ago, a thousand and a thousand more), never openly disobedient but always knowing he could push Killian further than he could push Liam, was sitting at the captain's desk, drinking from the very casks that Hook had requisitioned for his personal use. He looked up with a boozy smile. "Sorry, Cap'n – I just thought, now as we're pirates, that it was – "

"That it was what?" Hook shut the door with a slam. "Share and share alike?"

The sailor – his name was Edgar, Edgar Johnson, that was it – looked taken aback. "Aye. That."

"You did, did you?" Hook advanced on him. _You can come out now, Swan._ Aye, standing there and watching Flint hurt him. Her heart's delight, no doubt. "You wanted the captain's rum? Thought _you_ were the captain now, eh? Just giving the title out to anyone, aren't they?"

Johnson was starting to look nervous. "Cap'n – I'll go, I'll find some of my own, you don't – "

"Oh no." Hook smiled. "I'm feeling generous. You can have it. Have all you want."

"Really? You're not – ah, well, of course not, I'd – it's a good thing you done, taking us away from those Navy bastards – never liked them anyway, I thought, not an – _aack!"_

Whatever else Edgar Johnson had been about to say, doubtless very fascinating and a great loss to the world, was cut off as Hook seized him by the collar and forced him facefirst into the cask of rum, pushing his head under the golden liquid and holding it there as he thrashed and burbled frantically. _The Duke of Clarence drowned in a barrel of malmsey._ Shakespeare, that was somewhere in Shakespeare, he couldn't remember which play. Johnson was still struggling, but growing weaker. Hook remembered hearing from an old seaman that it took about five minutes to actually drown, longer if you were most unlucky, but less than a minute to take in enough water in the lungs to make the process close to irreversible. He was not about to chance it. Could see the grains of sand slipping through the great ship's hourglass, watched them, timed it. He wanted to know exactly how long it was. He might need the information again, in the future.

It was something on the order of six minutes when he felt the last flickers beneath his fingers go out. A peculiar slackness took hold of Johnson's flesh, and the faint, fine bubbles still popping to the surface stopped. It was done. He'd done it. It was over. He'd done it. Far from the first man he had killed over the past few days. Far from even the hundredth. But by far the first he had ever killed quite so personally.

Hook's fingers went numb. He let go with a jerk, ripping the corpse out of the rum, staring at Johnson's bloodshot, bulging eyes, mouth still open in a silent scream, golden droplets trickling out of it and oozing down his chin. He was never going to forget that face. In his deepest, darkest nightmares, he was never going to forget it.

Slowly, so slowly, feeling as if he was caught in mud, Hook glanced at Johnson's hand, saw that he was wearing a fine silver ring with a red stone that he must have pillaged in the night's work, and reached for it. Was clumsy about getting it off with only one good hand, and even clumsier about putting it on, but he did, sliding the cold circlet of metal around his finger and feeling it settle like a shackle. _You don't deserve to forget._ This way, no matter if the image did get lost on some other night, burned out by some other face, he would always have the tangible reminder. Never lose sight of who he was now. Never forget. Never forgive.

He remained in that horrified trance, staring at the dead man, for he didn't know how long. Then he turned around, floated out of the cabin on legs that didn't belong to him, and gave cool orders for the body to be removed and pitched overboard. Anyone else inclined to repeat Johnson's blatant insubordination would meet his same fate. This was the last warning they would get.

When it was done, Hook went back in, shut the door and barred it, poured out the cask that he had drowned Johnson in, opened the other, and dipped up a cup, crawling into bed with it and curling into a ball. He missed Liam, he needed Liam so desolately, he wanted to be comforted, he wanted to wake up, until he reminded himself that he wasn't going to need Liam ever again and nobody else was coming. It would not be prudent to linger on Kingston's doorstep forever, since as soon as they recovered their wind, they would try to land a blow the likes of which he could scarcely imagine. Just another few hours, and then they would have to get out of here. To Nassau, as he said. They could realize what they were dealing with, or he'd burn them too.

He sipped the rum until the world dulled, then took another cup. Some time went past, he didn't know how much. Then, to his consternation and confusion, there was an extremely leery knock on the door. Nobody wanted to interrupt him unfortunately after what had just happened, but the voice was urgent. "Captain? Captain? You should. . . it's important."

Swearing under his breath, Hook put the cup aside, had to catch his balance as he reeled, and made his way deliberately across the cabin to the door, jerking it open and emerging into afternoon sunlight that made him grimace. "What the blazes do you want?"

In answer, the underling pointed to the other pirate ship that had just entered the bay, which it could do without fear of reprisal thanks to Hook himself. What the – what the – what the _fuck_ was the bloody _Walrus_ doing here? He recognized it, sure enough, having shot at it vigorously in the not-so-distant past, as well as fighting in single combat with its captain in the even less distant past. If Flint thought he was bloody pulling anything –

Yet the gun ports weren't open, the black wasn't up, and they didn't appear to be spoiling for a fight, or to get their share of sacked Jamaican wealth, although this stopover couldn't hurt on that account. Instead, a longboat clattered off its hoists into the water, rowed by several – in fact, three – small figures. He recognized two of them, and there was something horribly familiar about the third. He was about to call for guns, but one of them was waving a white rag, and – they couldn't be coming to make a _truce,_ what the – what the bloody _damnation_ was this trickery and flimflam, he didn't understand, he –

In another few moments, the boat reached the _Jolie Rouge,_ and permitted by the tersest of imaginable gestures from Hook, the crew allowed on board James Flint, Billy Bones, and their smiling black-haired companion – Christ, it couldn't be, he hadn't seen the bastard in years, not since the very beginning of their indenture with Captain Silver, it couldn't be, not his _son –_

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Hook had meant it to sound snarling, threatening, but it came out as more of a croak. "You made it clear where we bloody stood. I don't want – "

"Shut up." Every inch of Flint was strung like a sail running full to the wind, about to snap, and do terrible damage when it did. "Trust me, I would not be here if I had any other choice, but it does not appear that I do, and this is full as much to your interest as mine. So – and take note, because I'm never uttering these fucking words again – Captain Hook, please, I need your help."


	17. XVII

**-XVII-**

It was now ten minutes into the most delicate negotiations since the English and Spanish had met for the Treaty of Utrecht, and nobody had outright attempted to murder anyone else yet, which had to be regarded as a significant victory. Murder them, that was, with swords, cudgels, pistols (or in a pinch, a pen knife or rather pointy feather). Loathing looks, cutting remarks, sideways glances, arched eyebrows, and visible struggles to keep one's silence had been observed in plentiful measure, leading one to the inescapable conclusion that these four men really did not care for each other very much at all. But no matter how little they liked it, and that was very little indeed, they were grimly aware that with matters as they stood – _assuming,_ Hook supposed, that this trio of malefactors weren't just openly lying to him, but he didn't think so – banding together had become their only real option. Hence, the murdering.

"So," Hook said, angling his shoulder to prevent Silver from getting a good look at the charts he had unrolled on the table, and looking up at the cool eyes of his opposite number. "That's your story, eh? That Henry Jennings admitted to being an agent of Lord Robert Gold, he took your woman and Captain Swan hostage along with a few others, and sank the _Blackbird?_ And as such, I should join forces with you to kick his teeth down his throat and out his arse?"

"That is the gist of it. I'm relieved you're such a quick study. Here I thought I might have to spend hours, and use small words in the explanation." Flint's eyes flashed. "As you're presently in the business of burning things and killing people, this sounds like a most profitable avenue to direct your fury. If I am not much mistaken, you'd kill plenty more for the chance to get your hands – hand, sorry – on Jennings, and now you can. So why wouldn't you agree?"

Hook turned away, pacing across the cabin and back. It felt too small, too bloody small, especially with these three imbeciles taking up space it. Well, Flint was no imbecile, that at least was plain. John Silver the younger, his boyhood nemesis – what was next, his bloody fucking father dropping out of thin air? – decidedly was. And Billy Bones might have supposedly escaped off the _Blackbird,_ drifted at sea, been retrieved by the _Walrus,_ and was now the reason they knew about any of this, but Killian still wanted to make a nice start of things by tying his balls around his throat. Then maybe that certain _je ne sais quoi,_ like a grotesque skin rash, or permanent disfigurement. His own was burning with that constant low-level ache, though not as much after two healthy doses of rum, and he kept thinking he could feel his fingers, kept reaching for things only to knock them awry with the hook. It had the potential to be a truly devastating weapon, but now –like him – it was only a sad, angry, sorry joke.

"Though," Flint went on, "if your reluctance owes itself to some petty desire to get back at the woman who betrayed you, or if perhaps you do not wish to be observed dashing to her rescue – "

"I don't care about Emma Swan," Killian snapped. Rather before Flint had finished speaking. "What I want to know is why you'd suddenly care about enlisting my help. Swarm on Jennings' ship, send him deservedly to the deepest pit of the hottest hell, and rescue your Miranda. Nothing beyond your capabilities. So why come to me at all?"

" _Now_ you decide to attempt to be politically shrewd and calculating?" Flint looked as if even he could barely believe this transparent dodge. "You're stalling. Do you want Emma back or not?"

"I wouldn't want to see any woman in that bastard Jennings' clutches. If I joined you, it would be because I wanted revenge on him and Robert Gold. Not a damn thing to do with her."

"Very well, we'll play along with that for now." Flint rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "It's bloody obvious you two were fucking, you know, and it ended badly, so we'll just keep that knowledge in our ledgers for future arrangements. As for your previous question, I realize you're a novice at this whole business, so I shall make it simple. It's similarly bloody obvious that Jennings is trying to draw us into his snare, get us to rush headlong and make a foolish mistake, so he can trap us and deliver us up to be hanged, breaking the entire pirates' republic at once. If I did that, it would increase his chances of success. If I go in with you – whatever any of us may think of you, you command the strongest pirate vessel in the Caribbean, which I doubt you realize or can take proper advantage of – then that drastically changes his calculations, doesn't it?"

Hook had had some breed of burning rebuttal ready to go all the way through this, but at the end of it, he abruptly shut his mouth. "So – what?" he said instead. "You think I can help you turn the tables on them?"

"Can't you?" Flint rested one hand on the table in feigned casualness, but the repetitive drumming of his fingers showed the tension and the anger he was barely holding back. "A week of single-handedly – literally – breaking the Navy's back, and now you're balking? Unless your taste for vengeance is already slaked? Take it from me. I very much doubt it is."

 _No. It isn't._ And it was true he didn't have much an idea of what he would do or where he would go after he had sacked Kingston, aside from the plan of returning to Nassau and drinking enough to forget the next few months entirely. This gave him something, another defined destination, another deserving (more than bloody so) target, and even someone willing to help him achieve it, albeit with a string of private motivations clattering along behind. Aye, he wanted to destroy Jennings so thoroughly that any future descendants of his would be born with a hook branded on their arse, and getting in one on the chin for Gold was an added bonus. It was just. . . hearing that _Emma_ was there, _Emma. . ._ and it wasn't even that he didn't want to rescue her, although by all rights he should leave her to shift for her-bloody-self. It was nearly that he was afraid if he _couldn't_ rescue her, there was still one more abyss he had yet to plunge into, and from there, he could never climb out again. After everything – Liam, Milah, his hand, his beliefs about the world, his soul – it turned out that there was one more thing to go, and if it did. . .

And yet. _A man who doesn't fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets._ Even if he never saw Emma again, he wasn't going to leave her to die like this. It was mostly about revenge on Jennings and Gold anyway. Hook reminded himself that Flint would almost certainly stab him in the back the instant this was done and they didn't need each other any more, but as long as he was prepared for it and saw it coming, he'd be able to land on his feet. He _did,_ after all, have the stronger vessel, more guns, and more men, as well as two stunningly successful attacks within a week, while Flint had been tooling around in hopes of a game-changing score for months and still hadn't come up with the silver bullet for his troubles. If he was going to try the betrayal game, he might very well find that it bit both ways.

"Fine," Hook said aloud, after a moment. "Get these two idiots out of here, and we'll talk terms."

Flint gave Silver and Bones an extremely pointed look, which Billy at least returned; it was plain that the reconciliation was fragile to say the least. Nonetheless, they exited with more or less compliance, and once he had barred the door, Hook poured his counterpart some of the rum. "Where has Jennings taken them?"

"Obviously, I can't say for certain." Eyes still on him, curt and wary, Flint took a seat across the table and accepted the drink. "If he's trying to stage my downfall, he'll want somewhere large and public, not some reeking backwater with no one to appreciate the show. Now that you've burned both Jamaica _and_ Antigua, his best options are in the American colonies. Charlestown, perhaps, though if he wanted the most dramatic setting, he'd go for Boston. He has interests there and has functioned as a trade emissary before, and as it's the largest city in the New World, it would guarantee the greatest amount of notice. Even if he wasn't planning on it before, he may well raise the stakes after your recent recreation."

Hook raised an eyebrow. Boston would indeed be a useful choice for Jennings – much of the pirates' money went through the Guthries' semi-legitimate business fronts there, if he recalled what Emma had told him. It also published the only newspaper in the colonies, the weekly _Boston News-Letter,_ which would ensure the tale spreading by official as well as unofficial word of mouth. Thus far, the _News-Letter_ had adopted the position that to write about piracy in any substantial way was to risk encouraging it, and thus only noted it in passing to caution wealthy sea-travelers or traders pursuing ventures in the area. This, then, would be a development which not even they could ignore, and which Flint and Hook could possibly profitably steer in their own direction. For all the horrified citizens who would recoil at the news of such barbarism and brigandage, there would be plenty more who might think of looking into the matter further. That, in turn, could translate into new recruits, the bones for any lasting survival. Conversely, if it was the site of their downfall, it would doom Nassau in a few short years, or less. If Jennings was thinking in terms of the lasting and grandiose, especially as that was Gold's apparent strategy here, he might well decide to make a play for Boston. And there was, to wit, one _minor_ problem with that for them.

"So, then." Hook leaned forward, elbows on the table. "If Jennings _has_ taken them there, or intends to, he will still have their entire strength and power on his side. Even you and I together can't burn the whole of Boston Harbor. We could go in knowing perfectly well it was a trap, and it would catch us nonetheless. Do you have a brilliant suggestion for that?"

"Actually, yes." Flint looked faintly amused, with the confidence of a man who usually did and found it quaint that anyone would have to ask. "If he _is_ going for Boston, he is in fact playing unexpectedly into our hands. Have you heard of Captain Samuel Bellamy, of the _Whydah?"_

"Only in passing." Hook considered another tippler of rum, then decided he had best keep his wits about him for the duration of this. "One of the North American pirate lords, isn't he?"

"Aye. Black Sam Bellamy, he's known as, supposedly for the color of his hair and his coat rather than his soul. Indeed, according to rumor, he's most chivalrous and dashing, as our kind go. His men call him the Prince of Pirates, see him as a sort of seagoing Robin Hood who steals from the rich and gives to the poor. His home port is, or was, on Cape Cod, and his first mate, Paulsgrave Williams, is from there as well. The _Whydah_ is a formidable command – she runs a hundred and fifty men and thirty-six guns, and she's a former slave ship that Bellamy captured by only firing a single shot and trading his old ship in return. She's also fast. Thirteen knots under full sail, with a captain who knows Boston like the back of his hand, and would see a mission to rescue two captive ladies as the height of his romantic legend. Do you follow my gist?"

"Aye," Hook echoed slowly. "We have to find him, induce him to support our cause, and get to Boston before Jennings can get his trap fully set, assuming that Boston _is_ where he's going. Then we merely have to rescue the women, not get the lot of us killed as well, and sail out of there with the entire New World colonial administration after us. Simple as pie."

"It would work better if we could bring an armada." Flint's eyes had the exact same hard glint as his name. "The rich merchants of Boston would choke on their collective tea and crumpets to see the entire strength of New Providence reaching them even in their protected bubble. But as it is, a triumvirate with myself, you, and Bellamy would be far more than they are expecting, and not one they could easily counter. Assuming our best speed, a steady wind, and no further distractions, we couldn't make it to Boston faster than at least a week, and Jennings already has a considerable head start. But if he wants us to follow, he might be obvious about leaving clues and hints to be sure we did. I take it you're not familiar with the Atlantic corridor, are you?"

"No," Hook said evenly. "Our – my previous postings were mostly in Europe, during the war."

"Ah." Flint flashed another of those opaque, sarcastic smiles. "That where you learned to fight?"

"W – I saw my share of action, yes." He looked down at the table. "It made a soldier of me, I suppose. But I'd been fighting just to live since as long as I could recall."

Flint's expression shifted slightly, though it was impossible to say if it softened. "How old are you?" It was asked bluntly, but not entirely unkindly. "Can't be more than thirty."

"Twenty-eight, in a fortnight or so." Remembering that his birthday was coming up was painful, not least because it was one of the few days where he always knew that no matter how tired they were or how hard they had worked or what little cheer they had, Liam would find a way to do something special. "I was born on Saint Bartholomew's day, 1687."

"Given its associations with the famous massacre in France two centuries ago, I'd say you're living up to your origin." Flint finally looked at him with something apart from cool disdain or barely tempered impatience. "I was only a year older than you when I became a pirate captain, and I certainly did not take my entire ship and crew with me. I had to build from the ground up. You're in a materially better position than I was, but you know far less."

"Oh, do I?" Hook smiled, with teeth. "Kingston and English Harbor might disagree."

"Fair point." Flint returned the same sort of smile. "Mark me, it's always easier to start off with success than it is to sustain it. And while you may have an advantage by coming in this way, your men won't see you as their only choice forever. If you haven't won their respect, and their fear, and held it, the view from the other side isn't nearly as pleasant."

"You know quite a bit about this, eh?" Hook put his boots up on the table, crossed them, and looked his rival dead in the eye. "Then again, James McGraw, you would, wouldn't you?"

Flint must be quite good at card games, because his expression barely flickered. It did, however, do so enough for Hook to see that he had not anticipated that. After a moment he said, in that dangerously calm voice, "And you think you know. . . what, exactly?"

"You scorched a great deal of earth on your way out of Whitehall. I heard rumors." He leaned back, not bothering to pretend that he wasn't enjoying this. Flint had been jabbing him with oblique taunts about his missing hand, knowing it was a literal and physical weak point, to see how he responded, if he could be provoked. Two could most certainly play at _that_ game. "You were rather a legend in certain circles. They always spoke about how much promise you had, how much more you could have done. . . at least until you fucked your best friend's wife and sent him to the insane asylum. It _was_ the same one, wasn't it? That we're rescuing now? I met Miranda Barlow on Nassau, by the way. She didn't strike me as the sort. But then, perhaps that was your bad influence?"

Flint's fists contracted into white-knuckled rocks. He obviously knew that he was being baited, but it was still costing him everything not to snap at it. _Don't know anything, do I?_ Hook might be a novice to the pirate business, but he had always been extraordinarily sensitive to the places a man could be hurt. He took a sip of rum, assessing the effect, as Flint silently talked himself down. Then the older man said, "If it makes you feel better about your own catastrophic fall from grace, which I am sure is entirely similar to the stories they will soon tell about you, then you can believe that version, yes. Tell me, what did Miranda make of you? Saw through your preening popinjay act in an instant, I'm guessing."

Hook was about to retort triumphantly that she hadn't suspected a thing, before it hit him that he didn't actually know. Miranda had been impeccably correct to their faces, but she had certainly eased him out of the conversation quickly to be able to speak more privately with Emma, and he didn't know what had passed between them until he woke up and. . . his cheeks heated slightly at the thought of what had happened after _that._ And Emma had warned that she was not a woman to be bamboozled or misled, and even in their brief acquaintance, he had sensed that inner steel. Certainly no good to leave _her_ where Jennings could do something terrible, even if he far from cared for her other half. "She was most gracious. I can't imagine what she sees in you."

"No?" Flint grinned, which looked very much like a prelude to a leap for some nearby unfortunate's throat. "We'll let that be a mystery, then. Now, unless there's some bit of Kingston you haven't burned enough, we really should be on our bloody way. We'll have to do some sleuthing. Find out where Bellamy has been most recently spotted. If we can catch Jennings before he makes it all the way to Boston, that would be best, but I am also not going to make the mistake of thinking he's working alone. If Lord Robert is feeling his oats, thinks he's going to deal with the pirate menace in one fell swoop, he could have all sorts of noxious little cockroaches infesting these waters. We'll have to be ready for anything."

Hook grunted in answer, and the two of them stood up, clasped hands rather too firmly, eyed each other up and down one last time, and thus settled most uneasily into their new alliance. They agreed to chart a course north for Cape Hatteras, on the Outer Banks of the Carolinas, as Flint said he recalled Bellamy using it as a hideout before. It would be a tricky and dangerous bit of sailing, as the Banks had claimed countless ships over the years, and the gales, sandbars, and rough waters that came up from nowhere added to the difficulty. As Ocracoke Island, just south, was notorious as the favorite haunt of one Captain Edward Thatch, better known by his alias Blackbeard, Bellamy was certainly not the only pirate who had seen the values of the place, and even more certainly not the only competitor that Hook and Flint might have to contend with. Blackbeard was also a friend and mentor of Charles Vane, who of course hated Flint like he had fucked his mother and not even sent flowers after, and _that_ would be no good at all.

Hook deigned to accept Flint's coordinates, as he didn't have much experience with the region, and grudgingly supposed that some amount of efficiency (and implied trust) would help them get this done faster than constantly expecting the worst. It _was_ true that they had to stick together long enough to get the women back, and as Flint's motives in retrieving Miranda Barlow seemed sincere (at least for him), double-crossing, however much it might be ingrained in his nature, wouldn't really be to his advantage. Yet. _I'm watching you, arsehole._

They got underway just past dusk, the ruins of Kingston fading into the twilight astern, as Hook stared aimlessly out the cabin window. He wondered if he had erred in not insisting that Silver stay on board, as a pledge of Flint's good faith. He wanted the man nowhere near him, but he was even less sure he wanted him to fill Flint's ear with whatever tales he liked – though in reality, Silver had had the opportunity for that long ago. Christ, talk about a ghost from the past. Killian had been fourteen when Captain Campbell lost him and Liam to Captain Silver senior in that dice game, and Silver junior just a year older. At first, he had made overtures of friendship to his father's new indentured servant, seemingly out of a genuine desire for it, and Killian, hungry as he was for anyone, anyone at all, had clutched hold eagerly. Then Silver junior had up and run away from home in the middle of the night, with not a word to his supposed friend or any attempt to see if Killian and Liam could have made it away with him, and that was that. Even after agreeing that his father was a foul, miserable git, and their bondage was vastly unfair. _He never even tried to help us. As soon as he saw his own chance, he took it._

Hook turned away with a muffled groan, sat down, and shrugged off his jacket, pulling his shirt over his head to examine the state of things. It wasn't pretty. His maimed forearm was heavily bruised, mottled green and brown and purple, from where Flint had stomped on it during their duel, and when he clumsily fumbled at the buckles of the brace, sliding the straps off over his shoulder and pulling away the cuff to reveal the bandaged stump, it made him hiss and moan in pain. The knotted linen was crusted with dried blood and fluid, and he gingerly unpicked it, supposing it was better not to keep himself in suspense. He hadn't even really seen it, especially not since whatever Milah had done to it. Had to get it over with.

He pulled away the last lengths of bandage, hissing again as it stuck, and stared down at the full, revealed ugliness. It didn't even look human, like something raw and mangled and twisted washed ashore after a battle, no longer part of a man or recognizable as a living thing. Milah had cut and trimmed and cauterized it well, but it was still grisly. The flesh was raw and inflamed, black stitches jabbed through in a neat track like crow's feet, burned with the cautery and terminating in an awkward, truncated club. Without the hook, it was worse than useless.

Hook sat there, staring down at the stump on the left and the hand on the right, trying to reconcile himself to it. Seamen lost limbs often; he had been in the surgery for some of the amputations, never a pleasant experience. But as you could not climb rigging or trim sails or handle lines or tie knots or man a gun or nearly anything else with only one hand, such injuries were usually the end of a man's career. Heaven forbid the Navy do anything to help them, either; they were put out with the merest fraction of what they were owed and left to fend for themselves. Since most of them had been pressed into service in the first place, it merely completed the turn of the wheel of injustice, crushing everyone in its wake.

 _Fine, then._ He had to learn how to dress himself, how to feed himself, how to do the simplest things, with only half of his previous ability to do so. How to put the brace on without someone's assistance, how to tolerate the weight and pain of it, how to train himself to accept such discomfort on a daily basis and turn it into a weapon. At least Milah's careful work meant that it did not look to be taking corruption or pestilence, but he'd have to be just as cautious, as an infection of the blood would kill him slowly but surely, and painfully. Have to be vigilant about cleaning it and changing the linen. He hadn't come this far to be felled by a god-damned _fever._

With another groan, seeing no way to delay any longer, Hook did his best to rinse and purge it, tears pricking his eyes at the pain, as the water in the wash bowl turned a vitiated red-yellow. He finished, dabbed it with a folded cloth soaked in rum, and swore out loud, gulping short, nauseous breaths and informing himself that he very certainly was not going to be sick everywhere. Jesus. Even touching the skin hurt, as if it would abruptly shatter like glass. He had to keep a more or less constant low-level amount of alcohol in his system to deal with the pain, and he wondered blurrily if they still had some laudanum. But that was possibly stronger than it would be wise to take, given what was coming, and he hated the vile shit anyway. Later. Later.

He finished, rinsed again, wrapped it in clean cloth, and tied it off, rubbing the worn grooves in his shoulder where the straps of the brace had cut into it. A fleeting thought passed through his head at how well a woman's touch would feel, and if he wanted to find one, there were still several aboard from the ones his men had taken in Kingston. But the thought of some faceless whore made him shudder. The one he still stupidly, irrationally, impossibly wanted, he would never have. _And that, my lad, is no more than you bloody deserve._

Aching, sick, sore, lonely, and unable to keep Edgar Johnson's ghastly visage from appearing behind his eyes every time he closed them, Hook drowsed fitfully on and off through the hours of darkness. He was already awake by the time the dawn bell sounded, and wondered if there was any reason to keep to the Navy protocol of sounding the hours and changing the watches. They had the hourglass to mark time, as well as the sun and stars, and while it might be convenient to keep to the usual work shifts of four hours or eight bells, it was also no longer necessary, or the sort of thing that most other pirates did. He dimly recalled Emma saying something about ships' articles, the guiding principles by which they established rules for sharing plunder, electing leaders, punishing misbehavior, and paying for injuries, and wondered if they should draft a set of those or not. He did not intend to give up his position to anyone, or suffer challengers for power, and if anyone did not like it, there were more casks of rum to drown them in. If all went well, they'd steal so much money, they wouldn't even care.

That was how it went for the next several days. They tracked slowly but steadily northward, battling through adverse currents in the Windward Passage and then swinging out to the open Atlantic eastward of the Turks. Since both Flint and Hook were experienced Navy men used to sailing well out of sight of land and over vast reaches of water, rather than less-seasoned amateur buccaneers who preferred to dart from place to place while never being more than a day away from a potential hiding spot or anchorage, this allowed them to speed the trip. From here, it was nearly a straight shot of a thousand miles north to Cape Hatteras, and the familiar monotony of a long sea voyage did somewhat help with Hook's mood. As long as he didn't think too much about what Henry fucking Jennings might be doing to the women, or what would happen if they couldn't find Sam Bellamy quickly. Or anything bloody else that had happened in the last fortnight, but there you had it.

It was a week since they had left Kingston when they finally spotted the long, serpentine stretches of the Outer Banks, uncurling like the sketches of a quill through the endless blue ribbon of the waves. There was so much sea and salt and air out here, barely another living soul in sight except for the distant silhouette of the _Walrus,_ and Hook breathed deep, feeling less like a hunted, pursued animal for the first time since all of this had begun. Not that this was the time to relax; indeed, quite the contrary. The colliding currents could turn these waters into a deathtrap in an instant, even without a storm, and Flint had warned him about the "wreckers" – local criminals who would hang a lantern on a donkey and walk the most perilous shoals late at night. Unwary captains, spotting their light, would take it for the stern lamp of another ship, and thus turn in that direction, thinking to follow them through safe waters – running their ships aground and leaving them and their cargo as easy prey. The wreckers thus were pirates in their way, but not even honorable enough to take their targets in a straight fight, resorting to trickery and cowardice and deception. Hook made a mental note to kill a few if he found them.

They drew into the azure water of the bay and took stock. Cape Hatteras was rather like Eleuthera: a long, thin barrier reef more than an island, thickly wooded with dense scrub and undergrowth that made it easier to sail around than attempt to cross on foot. As long as you then sailed back out the same way, as it stretched interminably northward all the way to Virginia. It was plain to see why pirates, whether Blackbeard or Bellamy, would choose it as a sanctuary. A spot on the leeward side would shield you from the worst of the wind and weather, with your enemies having only one way to get in and fully exposed to your guns if they couldn't retreat in time, the wreckers plying their duplicitous trade on the ocean side, and a mess of jungle to sink any attackers who tried to get at you on foot. In this case, however, they would have to attempt the entrance, to get around to the far side and see if the _Whydah_ was anchored there.

Flint drew the _Walrus_ within hailing distance of the _Jolie Rouge,_ and in the course of a short, shouted conversation, they agreed that the gambit would have to be made. The low green swells of Ocracoke lay just south, possibly sheltering Blackbeard or other unfriendly persons, and Hook's mouth was dry as they eased their respective ships into the tide rush. He damn well hoped that Bellamy was as chivalrous as the stories ran. Even a well-tempered man might take it ill to see two heavily armed rivals sailing right at his supposedly secret hideout, and thus decide to shoot first and ask questions later.

As they rounded the spray-lashed headland, Hook's heart skipped a beat to see the unmistakable shape of a large three-master at anchor, a scattering of lighter boats pulled up on the beach and a commerce of small figures going back and forth. It looked as if Bellamy, if this was indeed him, had recently enjoyed a run of smashing success and was here to stash it away before returning to the field. There was an alarm at the sight of them, but the _Walrus_ raised a white flag on her prow,and the gun ports on all three ships managed to stay closed as they conducted their approach – not too close, just in case. Then Flint, Billy, and a few of the men launched their longboat, popped by to collect Hook and a few of his own, and they rowed closer, someone waving his pocket handkerchief as signal of their continued benign intentions, to effect introductions.

It took some time to locate Captain Bellamy, then arrange a parley, but at last he did appear. The first sight of their potential ally was rather striking, though promisingly or not Hook wasn't sure. Unlike the usual unwashed villains and grimy bilge-rats, Bellamy clearly set vast store by personal appearance. He wore a long, deep-cuffed black velvet coat trimmed with golden lace, good breeches and silk stockings, shoes with silver buckles, and a sash slung with four silver-chased dueling pistols, a basket-handled sword riding low on his hip. He wore his dark hair long and tied back with a silk ribbon, tall, strong, handsome, and confident in his carriage, and Hook, who was at least subliminally accustomed to being the best-looking man in the room, felt an unexpected prick of jealousy. As Bellamy drew up before him and Flint, he offered a curtly abbreviated nod. "Good evening."

"The same, gentlemen." Bellamy offered a bow, which was apparently sincere. "I cannot say I was expecting visitors, but fellow pirate lords are always welcome on my shores. How did you know where to find me?"

"You started your career under Ben Hornigold," Flint pointed out. "Likewise, Blackbeard was Hornigold's first mate, and Blackbeard uses Ocracoke. Not surprising you took the other island."

Bellamy grinned and shrugged. "Guilty, then. Tell me, how is old Ben these days? Found his backbone for real takings yet?"

"Still squatting on Nassau in his rocking chair, holding the fort, and pretending to be relevant," Flint said, with a slight sneer. Hornigold had drastically dropped in popularity due to his enduring loyalty to England; he saw himself as a patriot in exile still fighting the good fight, and refused to attack English ships. As the rest of the pirates were diametrically opposed to this view and considered England, of course, their chief enemy, Hornigold had been suspiciously eyed as a potential traitor for some time, the reason Bellamy had first been able to come into his command. "Speaking of which, allow me to present my partner, Captain Hook. We have a pressing matter of business on which we were hoping to enlist your cooperation."

"Oh?" Bellamy raised an eyebrow. "Thirsty work, then. Come to supper, and we'll talk."

He led them through the camp to the roaring fire built from driftwood on the beach, where his crew were congregating to talk and drink. They hailed him as he passed, and he responded with genuine good humor; it was clear that he was well-loved, a fair and generous captain, and Hook hoped that all the lace and silver and frippery was just part of the image, and no deterrent to his skill. Once Bellamy had seated them at the fireside, gotten them some meat and ale, and sat across from them, he said, "Very well. What's this enterprise?"

Flint tersely explained their hunt, the hostages they were after rescuing, and the man who had taken them. At the mention of Jennings, Bellamy's black brows drew into a sharp frown; it was plain he was familiar with the name. "Aye," he said. "He's utter scum, there's no doubt. And he does come through Boston fairly often, doing business for Governor Hamilton, so you're right that it's likely he'd see it as an appropriate stage. But have you heard of the wreck of the Spanish treasure fleet? That was why I was coming south – I intended to get my share. If we were to make a deal – I help you rescue your ladies, and then we set out on the hunt together – "

"I'll do you one better." Flint's mouth twitched in a grim, humorless smile. "Both of us were actually present at the wreck site, and have its exact coordinates. Help us rescue Mrs. Barlow and Captain Swan, and we'll give you the bearings. No searching required."

"All of us have lady loves we'd move mountains for, then?" Bellamy smiled, rather wistfully. "Back on Cape Cod – Mariah Hallett, her father did not consider me a suitable candidate for her hand. Thought I was a penniless ne'er-do-well with no prospects for honorable employment. I wonder, if I return and dump a year's worth of the Kingdom of Spain's money in his lap, he'd change his mind?"

"Likely curse you for sending a load of angry Spaniards to his doorstep." Flint's mouth twitched again. "Just kill him and marry her. Much easier."

"Unfortunately, I am afraid my Mariah would take a very dim view of that," Sam Bellamy said wryly. He glanced at Hook. "The same for you, I gather?"

"Emma Swan is not my lady love." He hunched his shoulders. "Bloody hell, I don't even know why I'm bothering to rescue her."

"Oh?" Bellamy said again, slower. It was plain both that he didn't entirely believe this story, and that, as he looked at Hook again, there was something in his gaze that he was more accustomed to seeing from women. All at once, it occurred to Hook that while Sam Bellamy might be dedicated to returning and marrying Mariah Hallett, he was also not averse to enjoying himself a bit in the meantime – and that the persons of such enjoyment could be either man or woman. That if Hook himself was flatly disavowing any connection to or interest in Emma, and thus could be considered a free agent, Bellamy certainly wouldn't mind testing the waters.

Hook himself did not feel any particular desire to reciprocate, as while the epithet of "rum, sodomy, and the lash" might well describe conditions aboard many ships, and he had certainly had plenty of the first and last, he had mercifully managed to avoid the middle. Bellamy was a good-looking bloke, sure, and there was a faint bit of curiosity about what it might be like, but not enough to act on it. Much more interesting than this, however, was Flint's reaction. His eyes narrowed, clearly sensing Bellamy's interest in Hook like an unexpected shift in the wind, and something inscrutable flickered across his face. Eventually he glanced away, but not until a moment too long had passed, and in that, something occurred to Hook that had not before. Flint's defensiveness over that story, that he had supposedly driven his best friend insane by sleeping with his wife, but what if –

"Well," Bellamy said, startling both of them. "It would be utterly dishonorable of me to leave two ladies in the clutches of that human heap of excrement, and only a parcel of hen-hearted numbskulls would see it otherwise. You're certain he's going to Boston, though?"

"I'm certain of nothing but death and that other constant. Something to do with money." Flint's smile this time would have absolutely terrified any passing small children. "Aye or nay?"

Bellamy hesitated, but only briefly. "Aye. If you give me the coordinates for the wreck site once this is done, I'll be happy to help you rescue the women and carve out a cozy spot for Jennings somewhere deep in the ninth circle of hell. I recall that's the punishment for traitors."

"A literate man?" Flint eyed him consideringly. "That, surprisingly, makes three of us."

Hook supposed this was true; he, Flint, and now apparently Bellamy were remarkably well-educated for pirates, fond of books, and viewing their activities in the context of myth, legend, and literature. Figured, for a man called the Robin Hood of pirates. "So?" he said. "We'll leave in the morning, then?"

"We shall, yes." Bellamy gave him another look, as if to obliquely infer that if he wanted to spend the night here, he'd be welcome to do so. It was oddly tempting – not because he had a particular desire for it, but just that anyone wanted him at all, saw anything besides the wreck and the damage. Given Hook's track record, that meant Bellamy would soon be smote down by a lightning bolt from the heavens, and that did not seem fair. Best not to take any chances.

They made their good nights, hoped for fair sailing weather in the morning, and departed. As they were walking down the sand toward their own ships, the moon a fat pearl rising in the clear night sky, Hook said, "So what was his name? Miranda's first husband, that. . . friend of yours?"

Flint gave him a startled, wary glance. "The devil concern of it is yours?"

"I'm not going to barb you about it, if you're wondering." Hook felt unfathomably weary, and a thousand years old. "I just. . . I wanted to know."

There was a very long pause. Then Flint said, not looking at him, "Thomas. His name was Thomas. Lord Thomas Hamilton. Some cousin or other of Lord Archibald's."

"Thomas Hamilton." Aye, that was the name he'd heard in the Whitehall rumors. "And you were in a relationship with both of them, weren't you? All three of you, together."

Flint was startled enough to come to a complete halt, whirling to face him as if expecting Hook to have his sword out, challenging him to a duel. When he didn't see that, he relaxed, but only fractionally. After a moment, too levelly, he said, "What makes you say that?"

"I saw the way you reacted to Bellamy's. . . interest in me." Hook faced him. It was just the two of them, as their men had continued on down the beach, and the rising moon cast twisted, thorny shadows off their feet. "And suddenly, things made quite a bit more sense. You loved both Miranda and Thomas, and the wrong people found out. Thomas took the fall and was forced into the asylum, where he died, rather than stain the family name with that kind of scandal. You and Miranda fled here. Only halves of each other, when you used to be thirds."

Flint's eyes were utterly abyssal. He, however, did not deny it, and that was all the confirmation Hook really needed. Then he said, "Quite perceptive, Lieutenant Jones."

Hook flinched at the old title, but gazed coolly back. "Quite so, Lieutenant McGraw."

There were another few heartbeats as they kept looking at each other, both privately staggered by the similarity of their lives, the arc of the world that had landed them in the exact same place, just ten years apart. If they were any less damaged, or any less grimly determined, it might have impelled them toward a truce, even friendship, but neither of them were all that interested in reaching beyond their castle walls just now. If anything, the depth of the raw familiarity reminded them how easily they could destroy the other. How it would be exactly as simple as pushing them in the places where they themselves hurt the most.

"We can both agree that the same people were responsible for what happened to us, and leave it at that," Flint said, at last. "And by the way, you're not fooling anyone with your denial about Emma. Don't pretend that if it comes to it, you wouldn't burn Boston to the ground to get to her. It's different, you know. You burned Antigua and Jamaica out of rage and fury and heartbreak, and trust me, I know a bit about that. But with her, if she was in the way, it would be something far beyond. I _am_ older than you, and I've done this longer than you, and I know where your head will be going in the weeks and months to come. The least I can do is forewarn you."

Hook opened and then shut his mouth. It hardly seemed the right thing to thank him, and as much as he didn't want Flint's advice, he knew as well that it would be devastatingly accurate, and he ignored it at his own and further peril. But instead of answering, he turned on his heel, looked at his ship anchored at the mouth of the inlet, and without looking back, started to walk.

* * *

Even as the burning hulk of the _Blackbird_ vanished beneath the waves, they had begun to pick up speed, and the few survivors, except for Emma and Miranda, were taken below and shut into the brig. The women themselves were shown, with snake-oil gallantry, to Jennings' cabin, where he promised to attend them shortly – a statement that certainly did nothing to fill them with boundless optimism for the situation. Emma was still completely numb. Her ship was gone, her home, her command, her chance for her future. The last time this had happened was when she had been summarily turned out of Leopold White's house in Charlestown, disgraced after the scandal with Neal, pregnant with Henry and forced to scramble for any replacement anywhere. That had ended with the hurried wedding to Walsh, but to say the least, circumstances were different now. She would be lucky if she was still alive in a month or so. Or even a few days.

As they sat tensely side by side, Miranda glanced at Emma. Quietly she said, "If Jennings has a certain sort of. . . recreation in mind, you must make me a promise. You must let me take it."

"What?" Emma stared at her in horror. _"Let_ him – what, let him rape you in front of my eyes? Do you think I'd ever stand by and be able to live with myself if I did?"

"I am older than you," Miranda said, still more quietly, but even more intensely. "I've had longer experience with the world, with men, with men's cruelty, with having to look myself in the mirror and face up to what has happened to me, what has been done and cannot be changed. It would hurt me, I am sure, but it wouldn't break me. I could endure it. I don't know, however, if you could, and I absolutely will not take that chance."

Emma stared at her, trying to think of something to say. She was not going to promise this, would murder Jennings with a butter knife, or her bare hands, if that was what it took to keep both of them safe. But she also knew that even if so, they were still on a ship filled with his men, vastly outnumbered and at their mercy for God knew how long, and the odds were never good for captive women. She had to pray that Billy had made it to the _Walrus,_ as that was their only hope at all,and even if so, Flint would not be able to throw a dart and find them immediately. It was a large ocean, she had no idea where Jennings might be taking them, and then. . .

Any further conversation was cut off, however, as the lock rattled, and both of them felt their spines turned to iron as Jennings himself entered, shutting and barring the door behind him. At their expressions, he smiled indulgently. "Good heavens, surely you did not think I was about to pounce upon you and have my ravishing way, did you? I _am_ a gentleman, after all."

"You are no gentleman," Miranda said coolly. "And you have scarcely behaved as if you mean us well. Suspicion is the least of the justified responses in the situation."

Jennings waved that off, taking a seat across from them and regarding them appraisingly. "For the moment, you have more value to me unspoiled, and you'd be wise to see it stays that way. I have something quite exciting planned, and you two will be the star attractions. If _that_ doesn't work out, well, I'm sure my crew would enjoy sampling a blonde and a brunette at the same time, it's the stuff of lurid fantasy. But I have every confidence that it will."

"Oh?" Emma forced her lips apart, fingers burning with the desire to find something, anything sharp, and drive it into him until it could go no further. "What _attraction?"_

Jennings' grin widened. "Don't you worry yourselves over that, ladies. I'm certain it will all make sense when the time comes. In the meantime, you should relax and enjoy the journey. You're welcome to pass it here, in my cabin."

"Your kindness is boundless," Emma said, still more coldly than Miranda. "We would rather remain in the brig with my men."

"Really? It's not very pleasant, you know." Jennings leaned back, crossing his boots. "And that red-haired wench will probably be good sport to a few of the worse ones. If you went down there, I couldn't guarantee your protection from them either."

"You – " In the immediacy of their own threat, Emma had almost forgotten about the fact that Merida's situation was even worse than theirs, and that not even Will, Macintosh, and the Darlings might be able to fight off a concerted gang-rape attempt from Jennings' crew. "You soulless bastard. Not worth keeping her 'unspoiled,' is it?"

"Why, does she have a wealthy father or brother who'd pay a nice ransom for her?" Jennings raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "If she's sailing aboard your vessel, I'd hazard not. Or do you have a more compelling offer?"

"I. . . this." Emma reached around her neck, linked a finger beneath the ring on its chain – Killian's ring, the one she hadn't taken off since she'd first put it on in the brig to taunt him – and pulled it over her head. She knew it was an absurdly small thing, but it was the only one she had. "It's silver and garnet. It should be enough to buy her safety for the voyage."

Jennings evaluated her with a slight smile, as she could hear her own voice telling Liam that it wouldn't nearly be worth so much when trying to barter for a slave's freedom. The irony was presently murderous, but there was no time for that. "It's a nice trinket," he said dismissively. "But we have plenty like it. Women, not as many."

"Don't. Touch. Her." Emma's voice was low, almost a growl, as she rose to her feet, staring him down. "Whatever devilry you're planning, wherever you're taking us, all of us reach port in like condition. You know Flint will be following us, don't you? I'd wager you might even be counting on it. But you haven't seen Flint when he's truly unleashed, or you wouldn't be poking the sleeping dragon. Right now, a few of you might still survive this, if you're lucky. Anyone lays a hand on Merida, or any of the others, for any reason, and I can promise it will be none."

Jennings actually blinked, even if only once. His smile flickered, before he recovered. In that sleek, dangerous voice, he said, "What if it was a choice between her and you?"

"It wouldn't be." Miranda rose to her feet as well. "You already said we're of more value unharmed, and if it was the case that your animal lust simply cannot be slaked, you can have me. I swear, however, you'd get no savor out of it. And you certainly _would_ wish, later, that you had never been born."

Emma threw her a desperate look, trying to shield her, but Miranda wouldn't step down. Jennings considered them both, rubbing his chin. Then he said, "Very well. Hand over the ring, promise to behave yourselves, and the three of you ladies are safe from us. For now."

Emma held out her hand, fingers wooden, with Killian's ring clutched in her palm. It felt like giving up the last bit of hope to turn it into Jennings', especially as he admired it, pulled the chain off, and fit it onto his own finger. "Well, I rather like it. I hope it didn't hurt too much to give up, of course. There's a passenger berth just down the way, which you can feel free to use. Have a most restful night, my dears."

Not wanting to push their luck an instant longer, or for that matter suffer his company, Emma and Miranda fairly fled to the second cabin at the rear. It was much smaller and darker, but they didn't care, as it had a door with a bar, and they shoved it into place and then pushed the heavy table against it for good measure. Emma raised her hands to her face, discovered they were shaking, and clutched them. She wanted to weep, she wanted to weep for the _Blackbird_ and all her dead crewmen and for her future and for Killian and for everything else, but she was afraid that if she cracked the dam now, she might never get it bottled up again. Not now. Not when they were in such overwhelming danger. She had to keep it together. She had to get them through this.

Thus had it been for over a week. They were clearly headed well out of the Caribbean, somewhere considerably north, and on the few occasions she chanced out of the cabin to get some air, she kept desperately searching the horizon for any sign of sails, or identifying landmarks that could give her a hint as to where he was intending to take them or what he meant once they got there. There were none, nothing but the overwhelming sense of loss and abduction and dislocation, and her gut was in an endless roil, rattled by the rough seas and the constant worry and the hunger and thirst; Jennings fed them enough to keep them alive, but not a great deal more, and she felt as if she could devour the world. Nor was sleep a relief. On the few times she could battle her head into submission long enough to drop under, her nightmares were vivid and terrifying. It was as if she had entered into a dream realm from which there was no escape, and one from which there was no waking.

They hit a violent, short-lived thunderstorm sometime around the eighth day, which left the entire ship soaked and retching and smelling of sick, and Emma huddled miserably against the wall, trying to keep her mind off her own rebelling stomach. She was of course a good sailor, but this was far different from usual, and once they got to land, she'd be pleased to stay on it for a while. Not that there was anything waiting for her there but the next stage of Jennings' diabolical plot, so that was hardly comforting. Still, though. It would be good to stop the bloody _rocking._

It was almost exactly a fortnight after their abduction when land finally became visible on the horizon again. By the reckonings she had been able to glean and what little she could overhear from the crew, Emma guessed they had to be somewhere well north – New York, or possibly even Boston. It was once more ludicrously ironic that she had considered both of these cities as possible homes in the future with Charles and Henry, and this was how she was getting the chance to scope them out. Bloody hell, this was not good. If Jennings was taking them to the heart of the American colonies, he must be intending to dramatically throw the gauntlet in front of their faces. Here was a pirate, Captain Emma Swan, and here a pirate's woman, Miranda Barlow. The pirate himself, Captain James Flint, could not be far behind. If the smug, complacent American colonial administration, who had hereto considered piracy to be an annoying but minor and local nuisance that their counterparts in the Caribbean should be dealing with, were suddenly given a taste of just what that problem actually looked like, they might be terrified into getting off their arses and taking it seriously. This had Gold's fingerprints all over it. If he had to light a fire directly in front of the recalcitrant, lazy, embezzling, disinterested authorities, he would bloody well do just that. The British Crown was going to be very, very mad about the burning of Jamaica and Antigua, once they found out. No doubt about that. But if the threat could be persuaded to touch _Boston,_ it was unforgivable. Of course. Only Gold would gamble with the capital city's entire existence, everyone's lives, to make his deadly point.

Emma stood by the window, watching as the harbor drew closer. It was a bustling, industrious scene: ships rocking at anchor, longshoremen on the quays, brick customs and counting-houses, taverns, warehouses, and port offices lining the waterfront. It was clear that Jennings had in fact done quite a good deal of business here before, as nobody gave the _Bathsheba_ special attention as they entered. They had changed the pirate black flag for the usual Union Jack, so their intentions appeared entirely aboveboard. Whether that was the last mistake Boston would ever make, in believing them, remained to be seen.

Once they had tied up, Jennings appeared, all slick courtesies and assumed charm, to fetch the women and escort them ashore. He saw them to a boarding-house in a narrow cobbled alley, clearly run by one of his cronies under orders not to let them leave, and after enduring two weeks in a tiny cabin aboard ship, Emma and Miranda were immediately confined into one even smaller. The windows were nailed shut, and the hot, still air felt as if it was strangling her. Even though they were now in fact back on solid ground, her stomach wouldn't settle. Nothing would, especially not that, but –

Emma stopped suddenly, hands frozen on the sill after one more futile attempt to pull the window open. Oh God. She hadn't even thought. But earlier, when she'd noted that the last time her home had been destroyed was in Charlestown, after Neal. . . her constant nausea and hunger, her demented head, the way she felt everything too vividly and couldn't sleep, when she was in fact a prisoner who might have only one way to save herself from the noose, the exact thing she had been planning at first and then turned aside from – she had never thought – no, no, it –

Oh Christ.

Oh, _Christ._


	18. XVIII

**-XVIII-**

It was a dark, sour morning, sunless and sweaty and still smelling of smoke, as Captain Liam Jones stood on the soot-stained piers and stared at the broken, listing hulks of the burned ships, the water littered with shattered masts, floating boards, bobbing crates, tangled nets, fouled lines, torn sails, and a few bodies that had not yet washed ashore or been retrieved by the smaller craft doing their best to make the harbor passable again. It was fair to say that never, whether in war or peace, had Antigua and its Royal Navy headquarters been so thoroughly decimated. This was damage that the Spaniards could only dream of inflicting, the entire Caribbean living in fear of what could follow, and the dreadful news soon spreading back to Whitehall, about just what they were now up against, how their enemies had been strengthened. _And my men did it. My men, my ship, and my brother._

Liam did not know what to make of the fact that the _Imperator's_ crew had evidently followed Killian into piracy and murder without a second thought. He knew that when emotions were up and injustices were vivid, nobody was going to stand against the prevailing mob mentality and question whether this was in fact the wise thing to do, but he couldn't help feeling stung and saddened. They might well have thought they were avenging his mistreatment too, and perhaps they had. But _he_ had been their captain for close to ten years, respected and admired in a way very few ever were, and now overnight he had lost all sway on them whatsoever – he might be able to save Killian from the noose, but not them. With the Navy always starved for manpower, especially now, those who pleaded that they were just doing what their fellows said would most likely be pardoned and allowed to rejoin a crew, with a captain who flogged them regularly for proper discipline. But as the last thing the Admiralty wanted was to look lenient on traitors from within its own ranks, the rest would be hanged.

Liam rubbed the back of his hand over his stinging eyes. He wasn't angry at Killian, and yet he very much was, and he didn't know how the devil his brother would react to seeing him, even if by some miracle they did find him before whatever other bloodhounds Gold was certain to be setting on his trail. He wanted to believe that their fierce, deep, singular love would be enough, the bond that had gotten them through everything else life had seen fit to fling at them thus far, but this time, he honestly did not know. And of all of it, that terrified him the most. That his worst fears were coming true one by one, like a prophecy he had tried desperately to thwart and ended up bringing about instead, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

Just then, footsteps distracted him from his troubled reverie, and he turned to see Regina descending the harbor footpath, dressed for traveling in plain blouse, skirt and cloak rather than her usual elaborate silks and jewels. She was not particularly happy at this downgrade in her wardrobe, but as both of them realized that the privations would be far worse before journey's end, she had shut her mouth and accepted her sartorial fate with more or less resignation. Liam himself was wearing the clothes of a merchant captain, a grey coat and green cravat, buttoned waistcoat and buckled shoes, a black felt tricorne and a walking stick with a fussy little finial. He felt naked without his sword, and very much doubted that whatever replacement cannon they had managed to scrounge up were going to make him feel any better. Then again, if this came to a firefight, they had already lost everything.

He nodded stiffly to Regina, who nodded back, and they made their way to the end of the quay, where a longboat was waiting to take them to the frigate. It was much smaller than the _Imperator,_ a sixth-rate, and had been re-christened as the _Jewel of the Realm –_ a rather unnecessarily fanciful name to Liam's taste, but something that a well-off merchant might affectionately call a particularly profitable vessel. If anyone asked, he was Captain William Curry, an English trader out of Barbados, and Regina his wife, Elizabeth. Both of them had raised eyebrows at this, but there was no other ready pretext to explain her presence otherwise, and as it was much preferable to having to explain what he was doing with the infamous madam of Antigua's most exclusive brothel in tow, such would it have to be. If it helped him get Killian back, he'd buy her a bloody ring and make up names and backstories for their nonexistent children. There was probably a Henry. Did well in school.

They reached the _Jewel_ and stepped aboard, thus for Liam to get the first look at his new crew. Cobbled together from the survivors of the harbor attack, a few unemployed longshoremen, and whichever crew members could be stolen off the ships in St. John's, it was not an encouraging sight. The actual Navy sailors were nervous and angry about having to go after the same lunatic who had already killed everyone else, most of the longshoremen had never served aboard a sailing vessel before, and the pressed men were resentful, as pressed men always were. When Liam bid them a polite good morning, the response was mumbles and glares and growls.

"Well," Regina said, surveying the scene with a sardonic smile. "That's encouraging. I suppose you'll have to get started on acting like a normal captain, and beat them into shape."

"Absolutely not." Liam raised his voice. "I am well aware that none of you want to be here, and nor, for that matter, do I. That will not, however, translate into wanton brutality and despotism on my part. If you serve well, you'll be treated square and fairly, and I will personally ensure that you are paid your full owed wages at the end of it, regardless of the outcome. I do not believe in flogging, or starvation, or other cruel and vicious punishments, and do not intend to subject you to them. Nor will I be thought lightly of, disobeyed, mocked, or plotted against. We are here with one task, and distractions or delays will not be tolerated. No matter what you may have experienced before, under whichever captain, that does not count for anything here. You are my men now, and I mean to do right by you. Do I have your assent?"

This provoked a few startled glances, as none of them were used to a captain asking their opinion on anything, let alone their agreement to command them. It was also vanishingly rare to hear upfront that floggings were off the table and wages would be guaranteed. After a moment, a few heads nodded, then a few more, and hands were raised here and there. It was far from the most rousing acclamation a motivational speech had ever received, but it was at least one step better than open hatred, and when it came to this entire godforsaken situation, Liam had a feeling that small victories were all the ones he was going to get.

He gave the order to prepare for departure, and the ones who knew what they were doing headed up the shrouds, while those that didn't could at least winch a capstan and raise the anchor, haul in lines, or clear the deck. Liam himself bent over the charts, thinking briefly that navigation was really Killian's forte and then feeling the now-familiar stab that came with any of the casual, offhand memories of his little brother. Since it was widely suspected that Killian had next gone for Jamaica after his dismantling of Antigua, and that was the gamble Jennings had made in following him, they were starting their search there, and Liam wasn't sure he wanted to see what Killian might have done to it. Disturbing as it was, his sack of English Harbor was at least somewhat understandable, an explosive response to the abuse and misery of his childhood, the revelation of Liam's deception, the brutality and venality of Gold, Jennings, Nolan, and Plouton, the betrayal of August Booth, and everything else that had been building up. But if he had gone to Jamaica and deliberately done the same thing to people who had no part in this and whose only crime was living in a strategically important location, that argued a much deeper surrender to the darkness than a one-time fit of violent frustration, and a much more profound metamorphosis. It was pointless to wonder if Liam could have somehow stopped or checked this, especially considering how badly his attempts to do just that had blown up in his face, but it still played over and over in his head.

The sun did not emerge from the clouds as they took what unenthusiastic wind there was and angled westward. Liam intended to press as hard as they could, as time was not their ally and if they lost Killian again after Jamaica, the next most likely destination was Nassau, and there was no way they could follow him in there. The _Jewel of the Realm_ would be the fattest and most tempting of targets for any one of its locals, and would accordingly be torn to pieces. But if that was what they would have to do. . . get themselves captured and hope they survived long enough to be taken as prisoner to pirate headquarters, rather than just slaughtered on the spot. . .

To say the least, this was not an inspiring strategy, and Liam thought it was far wiser to keep it to himself. Once they were finally clear of Antigua, which took most of the morning, he did not have much to do, unless he wanted to pace the deck and hover over the crew, and that did not seem like an effective use of either his time or of getting them to trust him. He knew from long experience that a bit of a leash could make quite a difference, if you gave your men the barest amount of faith or independence without constantly thinking you had to cudgel them into brute obedience. Of course, that was easier when you already had a crew that was familiar with you and respected you, and not when you were first trying to establish your authority over one. Brutal as most captains were, there were plenty of sailors who accepted it as a regular and necessary condition of seagoing life, and would be equally suspicious of a man who seemed to lack the stomach to mete it out. _Yet again, I get to wonder if anything I ever did ever bloody mattered._ God, he needed a distraction.

The only option for one, however, was conversing further with Regina, and Liam wasn't certain he wanted to do this, even in the name of improving their cover story. He didn't even know why he was so resistant, aside from his usual conviction that any less than absolute focus on the mission might cost them their chance to save his brother. Perhaps he did think he had to punish himself, as she had suggested. He did find her intriguing and attractive – rather more attractive than he was comfortable with, frankly. He had spent so long caring for himself and Killian, first fighting for their survival and then captaining an actively serving ship during the war, that the idea of romance, of a wife or lover, had not really entered into his calculations, and he wasn't much more experienced with women than Killian was. He was just better at hiding it. Nor was he particularly interested in marrying Regina, as if he just had to settle for the first one that came along. They had a deal in common, aye, but they clashed just as much, two strong-willed, stubborn, flawed, independent people used to being in charge and looking out for themselves, deeply susceptible to the darkness, and yet just as strenuously denying it –to the point where it had gotten a much stronger foothold in their souls than either actually wanted to admit or take responsibility for. Perhaps he didn't want to talk to her because, obvious differences aside, it would be too much like talking to himself. Exposing everything he wanted to keep hidden, shut away, for his own sanity and self-preservation. He couldn't let himself be that weak, not yet. Couldn't focus on his own pain. Not when Killian still needed him.

Regina herself did not seem interested in furthering the intimacy of the arrangements either. After she had finally grasped that none of her usual tricks or enticements or manipulations would work on him, that she could not coax, bully, beguile, or flatter him into serving her purposes or marching to her drum, she had retreated to a cool distance. He had the sense that he had at least earned her respect, a vast rarity in a world where she made her money off the foibles, weakness, dishonesty, and incontinence of Navy officers, who were never a pretty girl or a stiff drink away from doing what she needed them to. Whether that would be enough to get this done, or if she had accompanied him entirely to have another shot at Captain Swan and out of no regard for him or Killian whatsoever, remained to be seen.

Conditions on board remained uneasy, but holding, for the next several days. The wind picked up, which was useful, as when the trades were blowing it wouldn't be that long of a trip to Jamaica. Liam almost would not have minded if they hadn't, but stalling wasn't going to help a damned thing, and at this point, the sick anticipation had reached a level where actually knowing would just be better. His shoulder was still giving him all sorts of difficulty; he had to debride and clean the wound awkwardly one-handed (the alternative was asking Regina for help, and he was too stubborn to do that) and it was still raw, red, tender, and prone to stabbing him like a bolt of lightning every time he tried to raise his arm above his head. Then he thought of the fact that Killian, who had lost his damn _hand,_ was probably in similar straits with a permanently debilitating injury, and no one to look after him either. What was he doing about that? Had someone at least tended and stitched it for him? What if it took infection or worse, gangrene? Liam had seen too many good men die that way, the worst and slowest and reeking and most agonizing of all deaths, rotting from the inside out, and the thought that Killian could do the same was a constant anxiety in the back of his head. He needed to find his little brother, he needed to take _care_ of him, he needed to make this right, to whatever small degree he possibly could. He was not nearly so naïve as to think that all the damage could be reversed, the clock wound back, the world set entirely right and just again, when it never had been before. But anything less than doing it, or dying in the effort, would be even more unforgivable.

At last, they got the distinctive whiff of Port Royal that meant the island was not far ahead – yet it was not the familiar reek of heat and rubbish and human misery, but the same burned, dark, rotting miasma that had started to settle over Antigua even before they departed. It made Liam's gorge rise, and the crew tied soaked rags over their noses and mouths, trying to avoid breathing the worst of it. When they came in sight of Kingston harbor, it became horribly clear why. HMS _Diamond_ was dismasted, still afloat but barely much more use than if it wasn't, and HMS _Jamaica_ was on its side, prow thrust at the sky as if a finger pointing in stark accusation to its murderer. The rest of the merchant ships were in similar disrepair, hulls scorched and splintered with heavy bombardment – Liam knew exactly which guns those were, the thirty-two pounders – and none of them looking as if they could quickly be made seaworthy again. The slave market was completely gone, dashed from the ground as if by the vengeful hand of God, and the burning stretched indiscriminately across the city and into the jungle. It was plain enough where the stink was coming from. There were bodies everywhere. Even the efforts to haul them away and reopen the port had not yet made much of a difference. The destruction was stunning and absolute.

"He certainly does know how to make a statement," Regina said, since Liam was at a loss for words. "I wanted to burn the entire world after – after Captain Colter, and I must say, I'm rather envious of how spectacularly he's pulled it off. This isn't so – "

"Envious?" Liam finally managed to choke past the ice in his throat. "Is this what you'd do, if you had the chance?"

"Yes," Regina said, staring defiantly into his face. "I damn well would kill everyone I could. And I'm not sorry for it."

"You've been having quite a start to it, haven't you? What with your partnership with Gold? What have you done to all the captains who didn't find the _Blackbird_ for you? Slit their throat and threw them out back of the brothel, for failing to aid you in your vengeance?"

She shrugged. "Not nearly. Just dropped words about their private behavior to the wrong people, and destroyed their lives. It's not my fault. I didn't drag them into my brothel or force them to be brutes and hypocrites. If they didn't want to run the risk, they should have kept their breeches buttoned and they should have _killed Captain Swan."_

"That's the only thing that's going to make you forgive Daniel Colter's death, then?" Liam couldn't look any more, and he turned away. "Just that, and then you'll magically be fulfilled?"

"We'll see, won't we?" Regina's hands tightened white-knuckled on the railing. "You're not in any place to lecture anyone about deals with the devil, Captain Jones. Just in case it slipped your mind. What do you think Killian will do when he finds out you've been sent on Gold's errand to drag him back to Antigua, and return him to slavery if they deign to spare him hanging? And don't say he won't find out. Even you can't be that much of an idiot by now. Of course he'll find out. What are you willing to do to stop him? Kill him?"

"Christ!" Liam felt as if the deck had turned underneath his feet. "I. . . no, no, no, no, _no._ I can't. I can't. No. God, no."

"Well then." Regina didn't look triumphant. Only flat and grim. "If it comes down to it, you may have to step aside and let me."

"I'm not going to do that either. You're insane if you think I would."

"Then your loyalty is to your brother, Captain, and not the Navy and not Gold and not any vestige of the corrupt and bankrupt system, and we already know that you're not going to bring him back to face their judgment." Regina smiled bitterly. "So why are we even wasting time pretending that we will? You could go pirate right now. Just like him."

"I am _not_ a pirate." Liam felt whatever few shreds of his old beliefs he still clung to starting to slip out from beneath him, like loose rock on a sliding slope. "If you're trying to push me to turn because you think you'd then have a chance at getting me to do this same sort of thing for you, since you admire it so much in Killian – "

They were almost nose to nose, despite the fact that she was a foot shorter than him, hissing furiously at each other, and the crew was starting to stare. Belatedly, Liam pushed himself back onto his heels, realizing that there was nothing for them here; Killian was already gone, nobody would know where, and if they did, it would only be so they could decide when to start twisting the noose. There was no coming back from crimes like this, no benevolent forgiveness. It was just as he had feared. It wasn't merely blowing off steam. It was far, far worse.

"Maybe I'd just like it if you admitted what you wanted," Regina snapped back. "Rather than still trying to pretend this is about the honorable thing. You can't get your head around the fact that you've been felled from your pedestal, and think you still get to act like you're up there and you have to do this the _right_ way. To set an _example._ You're so self-righteous it makes me sick."

"And you're a petty, vindictive, jealous, bitter shrew who won't be content until she drags everyone else down to her level and blames them all for her misfortune!" Liam took another step, bearing her backwards against the mainmast. "If we're in the business of telling it like we see it, madam, then there's your serving! So once more, if it's something you think I should do – admit the truth of myself and my motives – perhaps you should take your own advice!"

Their faces were extremely close by now, enough for him to see the variegations of brown and amber in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks, her black hair coming loose from its braids and tumbling around her ears. Her breath hitched slightly, doubtless in a prelude to slapping him silly, and fine, if she wanted to play rough, they could do just that. He set his feet, preparing to take any blow she felt like dishing out; she had another bloody _think_ coming if she expected to –

Instead, she breathed noisily through her nose once and then twice, then reached out and pushed him smartly backwards. For once, she did not have a sharp remark on hand, as if the potency of their confrontation had stunned her as much as him, the sparks still lingering in the air in want of a striking match. She silently pinned her braids up again, then said, with enough sarcasm to fell an ox, "Very well, _Captain._ This is your voyage and your mission, I'm sure you will make the bountifully wise and noble decision for us all. I'm going below."

"What are you idiots looking at?" Liam snarled at the gawking crew, as Regina whirled on her heel and stormed through them. "Don't you have something to be doing? Decks to scrub?"

That got them to scatter, although a few were still throwing arch looks that really were not, no matter Liam's egalitarian philosophies on the command of a seagoing vessel, the place of a sailor to give to his captain. He blackly considered that a few floggings might not hurt after all, before quickly rebuking himself for it. Christ, one Jones brother on the uncontrolled rampage was bad enough. Two did not bear thinking of.

Since there was plainly nothing for them on Jamaica, he now had to make the dangerous gamble he had most hoped to avoid – whether to risk tracking Killian to Nassau itself. In which case, with the maximum degree of irony possible within the universe, the best option would indeed be disguising themselves as pirates, but there was no way he could ask that of a crew which was not his, and had only the most basic level of respect and recognizance for his command as it was. Yet as much as it was likely that Killian would be addressing himself to the pirate stronghold in hopes of making some friends and allies, it was also true that that was not something he had appeared particularly concerned with to date – and why would he be, when he was strong enough on his own to wreak this kind of devastation? As well, if there was one thing Liam had always known about his brother, it was that he was fundamentally driven by his heart, not his head. He would not do the coolly rational thing, not if it ran cross-grain to the emotional one. He threw himself completely into whatever was before him, and did not look back. And considering the chief reason he had been drawn into the pirate charade in the first place, the chief _person. . ._

Liam could not shake the feeling that if he could find Captain Emma Swan, wherever on bloody earth she was, his brother would not be far behind. What Killian was planning to _do_ once he caught up with her was less clear, as it hardly seemed that they had parted on amiable terms. But now that they were both pirates, and he no longer had anything to lose, there was certainly unfinished business which he might have an interest in getting back to. Besides, Liam knew Killian more than well enough to read between the lines of the abridged, sanitized story his brother had given him. No matter what he claimed, he was far from done with her.

So, then. This hardly lessened his quandary, not least because he had a woman aboard who would gladly murder Emma the instant she laid eyes on her, and because it still raised the difficulty of how a merchant ship would get close to a pirate without being instantly set upon and taken. But Liam felt it was a far more substantial wager than Nassau, and as the odds of just randomly stumbling upon her in the entire expanse of the Caribbean Sea were more than remote, he had to decide where she was most likely to have gone. At their first unwitting meeting at Lord Archibald's, she had introduced herself as Emma White, from Charlestown. . . did she have a base there? Old family connections? There had to be a reason for it besides a mere alibi. She wouldn't be daft enough to sally in there as a pirate, so he wouldn't find her merely shooting the breeze, but it was at least somewhere to start. If she had family on the mainland, unaware of her criminal activities, he might be able to track those down as well.

Wearily, Liam recalculated their course for the Carolinas – which, no matter which route they took, would involve passing through pirate waters for most of it. Since the _Jewel_ only had thirteen guns (they had not been able to reconstruct the entire fifteen that Killian had stolen), the only way to do this even remotely safely was to run at full speed for as long as they could, and as long as the crew could take it, sleeping and working in constant rotations. No anchor, no stopping for the night, no reefing or slacking, northeast through the Windward Passage and around the Turks, then northwest to Charlestown. It would be a bruiser of a voyage, but as the lightweight _Jewel_ could do close to fifteen knots in a good wind, they could possibly make it in just about three days. Once again, without any rest or respite, and hoping like hell they did not run across some other unwelcome local color. Well then. Time to get it over with.

They had been sailing eastward for most of the afternoon when the lookout called down to report something floating in the water just ahead, which looked to be, from this vantage, like yet more wreckage. As they drew abreast, this unfortunate hunch was confirmed. Debris and floating bodies were scattered across the water, looking very much as if a ship had gone down very recently, and spotting someone feebly waving for help, Liam immediately ordered that a line be thrown and the survivor hauled on deck. He was clearly on death's door, bleeding and delirious and all but incoherent, and Liam knelt next to him, trying to get him to focus. "Who did this? Was it Captain. . ." He hesitated. "Captain Hook?"

"No. Jennings. That bastard Jennings." The man coughed, cold, waxy hand slackening in Liam's grip. "Sank the _Blackbird._ Killed the rest. Took the women. Took them."

"The _Blackbird?"_ Bloody hell. He couldn't resist shooting a glance at Regina, whose lips had gone tight, face pale. She did not appear to know quite how to react, and Liam turned back to the dying man. "Emma Swan. Did Jennings take her?"

"Aye. T' other one too. Flint's wife. Dunno where. Kill 'im. Kill 'm." The sailor coughed again, racked and retching, eyes going glassy. "Kill 'm."

Liam waited, but when the man did not say another word, staring blankly at the sky, it became clear that he was gone. He bit his lip, reaching out to close the man's eyes and fold his hands on his chest, ordering for him to be sewn up in sailcloth and sent to rest in the deep as any seaman, even a pirate, had a right to expect. Then he rocked back on his heels, confounded and unnerved by this new information. Jennings with Emma in his grasp was a lure that would be almost impossible for Killian to resist, and whatever the murderous, maiming bastard meant with her, it couldn't possibly be good. He doubted that Regina's advice in this regard would be unbiased in the least, but he still found himself turning to her. "Do you know where Jennings would be going? Back to Antigua? But that's not much of a – "

"No," Regina said, after a moment. "I know Jennings, better than you or your brother do. He's been through my brothel a few times, while he was still working for Hamilton. He's. . . the sort of man who enjoys it more if the girl doesn't. I only had a few who were willing to take him for a night, and even they began to resist. I had to forbid him from returning. My girls are expensive investments, you see. I couldn't have him repeatedly damaging their value."

"Oh, aye," Liam said, cold and dry as a bone. "Couldn't damage the investments, of course. So what – you think it's fair to leave Captain Swan in that man's hands, then? Just the sort of punishment you want for her?"

"No." Regina's nostrils flared. "If nothing else, I'm not letting him do anything to her before I get my turn. And in that case, I can tell you that outside of the Indies, the place he does the most business and has the most connections is Boston. I can't say with certainty, of course, but it is no worse a lead than Charlestown. Likely better. He's not going _there,_ they hate him."

Liam decided not to remark on the fact that as far as he was concerned, hating Henry Jennings was the right and proper response of mankind to that walking pustule's continued existence. "The dead man said they had someone else. Flint's wife. Bloody hell, not _the_ Flint?"

"There's only one in the Caribbean," Regina said slowly. "So I can't imagine it would be anyone else. If he has _two_ hostages of such value, then yes, he'd want to go somewhere they would properly appreciate the magnitude. He may be working for Gold now, but he's the sort of attack dog who's always a breath away from going for his own master's throat. He's hardly going to report back to ask for permission or advice."

"So, then." The entire future of the enterprise hung on guessing this correctly, and if she was being honest with him. He thought she was, if no for other reason than her vengeance, but it was a terribly slender thread to hang his brother's life from. "Boston?"

Regina paused a long moment, then nodded. "Aye," she said. "Boston."

* * *

"You are sure?" Miranda's face was pale, stunned but resolute. "About. . . this?"

"Obviously, I can't be entirely. It's too early." Emma looked down at her hands, knotted into fists. "But I. . . I should have had my monthly by now, and I. . . I feel like I did at first with Henry. I didn't realize what it was that time, but with this. . . yes. I'm fairly sure."

Miranda considered her. "And it's Killian's?"

Emma's already tense posture went several notches more so. "I haven't been with anyone else. I know I'm not the best at sharing, but if you think there was some other man and I just didn't – "

"I'm not accusing you of anything, my dear," Miranda said, picking up on her defensiveness. "I am merely doing my best to be sure that I know the entire situation. As you said, it can't be more than a month along, and that is the most dangerous it could be. Any woman imprisoned and facing the noose would claim a convenient pregnancy at this point, but it will be some time yet before you could possibly prove it. Time which, needless to say, we do not have. Nor is Jennings about to let his grand plans unravel over such an easily mended triviality. If you tried to use it to excuse yourself, all he has to do is have some brawny man punch you hard in the stomach, or force some vile poison into you, black hellebore or the like. That, in his mind, would have it covered both ways. If you _were_ pregnant, you soon wouldn't be, and if you weren't, he'd have properly punished you for lying."

Emma flinched as if she'd been slapped. She had no doubt that Miranda's brutal assessment was entirely accurate, and something she hadn't even considered. She hadbriefly thought that if she _had_ , utterly and devastatingly ironically, ended up able to plead the belly after all, she should at least do that. But Miranda was right that Jennings was not going to let something like this throw a last-minute wrinkle in his evil schemes. And this, now. . . their entire chance of outside help rested on whether Flint was able to find them. Maybe he could. Maybe he couldn't. And even if he did, that was probably just what Jennings wanted, and those were no odds at all.

"So – what?" she said aloud. "Will, Merida, Macintosh, and the others are still prisoners, we don't even know exactly where they are, and I'm not leaving them behind. Not after I already got the rest of the crew killed. And this – if I don't tell Jennings, which I shouldn't, as you said, it's still going to mean I hang, and I – Charles and Henry, they don't even know I'm a pirate and now they'll hear that I was executed for treason, I don't know how to help them either and I can't put them in danger by trying to escape to Williamsburg, so I can't – "

"Emma." Miranda put a hand on her wrist, silencing her frazzled ranting. "I know it's in your nature to think about everyone else first, before you ever consider the consequences for yourself. But in something like this, I have to know. Do you want this child?"

"I – " Emma was brought up short. The realities of her life meant that she had never felt especially maternal. Henry had been not quite five years old the last time she saw him, when she departed the colonies after Walsh's death in search of work back in England, and was of course captured by the _Walrus_ and converted to piracy instead. She had always done her best to tend to his needs, the same way she had done her best to be a good wife to Walsh, and she certainly loved him enough to make all of this worth it, hoping to build for his future. But he was close to eleven now, raised by Ingrid Arundel in Virginia with no inkling of who or what she really was, and far more of an abstract presence and concern in her life than a real one. Even if Emma did get Ingrid to agree to take in this second child, and pay her more for the service, there were still eight uncomfortable and tenuous months to go with it first. Pregnancy and childbirth were dangerous enough even when you _weren't_ an imprisoned pirate captain intended to bring down the rest of the republic with you. There were, as Miranda had mentioned, brutal, dangerous, and painful, but more or less effective, ways for a woman to rid herself of an unwanted conception. _Just be beaten to within an inch of my life or have a delicious drink of poison. Either one._

"I don't know," Emma said. "I. . . I don't think I _don't_ want it, at least. When I first realized, there was a moment when I. . . I thought it might be nice for Henry to have a sibling. Charles is away at college, and he's usually by himself. It would be much younger, of course, but. . ."

"And again," Miranda pointed out gently, "you're thinking of what _Henry_ would want. Not you. Be honest with me, my dear. Do you think that if this child's father knew of its existence, there would be some incentive on his part to abandon the damage and destruction he is currently wreaking, and come to find you?"

"I. . . I don't know," Emma said again. "He made it clear what he thought of me the last time we saw each other. And if he did decide to return, I don't want it to be out of obligation. Pity. Duty. If he even feels that for me, or anyone, right now. I don't want him to think I was trying to force his hand. It might be better if he doesn't know."

"Ah." Miranda's tone remained gentle, but it was clear she was not going to accept this at face value either. "You think it's better if, no matter what he may presently be doing, this man never knows that he has a child? Why, Emma?"

"I didn't say never." Emma kept looking at her hands. "I just meant. . . maybe not for now."

"Ah," Miranda said again. "Well, it is a very delicate situation. Here is what we have to do. We must get you out of here at once – even if you don't say anything, they will start to suspect if you continue to feel poorly. If you can make it to Cape Cod – do you know of Black Sam Bellamy?"

"Aye, I know him. Of him, at least. One of Hornigold's old men, stole himself his own command." Emma frowned. "He's from there, isn't he?"

"From Devonshire, originally, but it's his home port in the Americas. He's a good man, you can trust him. Find him, and he'll give you shelter and sanctuary, take you home. Nassau is the safest place for you. I doubt you will be able to form another crew until after the child is born, but you can remain at my house until it is. Then decide, as you will, what to do with it."

Emma frowned. "You're not coming with me?"

"If James got here and didn't find us, or thought we were both dead, his rage would be terrible. There would be no leashing it again, and I cannot see that happen. You have to let me do this, Emma."

"Wh – Miranda, no. We'll go back together, with the others, or not at all."

"You have a good heart, my dear." Miranda surveyed her with weary affection. "One of the best and strongest I've ever known. So much that the thought of doing something for yourself alone is the one thing you refuse to countenance without a mighty struggle. But as I said aboard Jennings' ship, if it comes down to saving one of us, it has to be you. It's not up for debate."

Emma shut her mouth hard enough to hear her teeth click. "So you'd stay behind and hope to head Flint off when he arrived?" she said after a moment. "Make sure he didn't attempt to burn all of Boston, and then you'd rescue Will and the others and get out of here?"

"Yes," Miranda said composedly. "That would be the idea. I don't _want_ to die, you know, but I also recognize that the situation is more complicated than both of us staying or both of us running away. You're in far more danger. You're the pirate captain, the chief prize, and now this. If you can get out, and trust me to do what must be done here, there is no other way."

"But if Jennings discovered that I'd escaped, and he took it out on you and Will and the others –"

"Emma, listen to me. Jennings will hurt anyone he can, on whatever pretext he can find. If it wasn't this, it would be another. But if he gives into frustration and just kills us, he's lost his leverage, his negotiating position, any chance of twisting James' arm when – or if – he makes it here. Vile as he is, he's still aware of the wider game, the chess pieces he needs to move to deliver a satisfactory result for Lord Robert Gold, and that means keeping us alive. The only one of us who would die beyond a doubt is your child. Followed, once your use was done, by you."

Emma had no answer for that. It still went against every grain of her to even think about leaving the others behind and making a run for Cape Cod by herself, on the slim chance that Black Sam Bellamy would be passing through or that she could find someone to hide her until he did. But what the hell other choice did she have? Nobody was coming for them, at least not in time. If she would even have the chance to decide if she wanted this child or not, and whatever slim possibility still existed to reconcile with Killian whether because of or despite it, she had to get out of here. Nobody saved her but her. She had always done it before. But. . .

"Just tell me one thing, then, if we're being honest," she said at last, quietly. "Did you ever. . . did you ever want children?"

Miranda smiled, very softly and very sadly. "I thought of it often," she said after a moment of her own, tracing a finger over the table. "In those first, horribly lonely, hard, empty, heartbroken months after we first came to Nassau, I wanted a child for the sole reason that it would be someone to keep me company, to focus my love on, when James was gone for weeks and weeks at a time and hardly the man I had known when he returned. But I never got up the courage to mention it to him, as I knew the very last thing he wanted was another vulnerability, something or someone else that could be taken from him, used to hurt him. Besides, both of us would have regarded it as nearly a sacrilege to Thomas' memory, to seem as if we were forgetting about him, trying to build a new family without him. So I made the choice to pass my hours with the ghost of my dead husband for my company, rather than a living son or daughter, and to let that be my lot, for my sins. If I had insisted on a child, James would have given me one, but it would have opened far more wounds between us than it ever would have mended. And even with Thomas, I never quickened. It may simply be that it was not my fate. But in the end, I was not so bereft after all. If you are going to choose to save your child, I must also choose to save mine."

Emma was briefly confused, until she met the steady, quiet force of Miranda's dark gaze, and it knocked her back on her heels. She hadn't quite believed Flint was telling the truth (because who would?) when he had called her the daughter Miranda had never had, said that she loved her. One of her chief fears about being a mother, about the day when she returned to Henry and would be expected to know how to do her very best for him, was the fact that her own parents had died so long ago, that she had no knowledge of what a mother looked like. But, she was realizing now, that was not the case. She hadn't been able to understand Miranda's fierce, immediate, instinctive desire to protect her from possible rape by Jennings even at the cost of suffering it herself, or to insist that if one of them got out of this, it had to be her. She was certain that she didn't really deserve it, that Miranda should ensure her own safety, because Miranda was better than her, stronger, wiser, and more worthy of surviving. Yet instead she realized that it was the cornerstone of the whole thing. Of saving your children even when they couldn't see the value of it themselves, of doing whatever you had to, and believing in your own strength to do it. And if she wanted to be a real mother to Henry one day – never mind this other one – then perhaps she should, she had to, finally believe in some of her own.

"I hate this," she said. "I really, really hate this. But tell me what to do."

The first step was simple enough. Emma affected to be overcome by the heat and stifling air of the room (which was not much of a stretch; it felt like a bloody oven) and crumpled into a swoon on the floor, while Miranda shouted for help. The innkeeper appeared, annoyed at the ruckus, but not so utterly without scruple as to remain unmoved at the sight of a lady in distress, and allowed Miranda to support Emma downstairs and fetch her some water. Then while Miranda was distracting him with questions and concerns about whether he really intended to keep them in such unchivalrous estate, she stealthily slid out of her chair, sidled into the narrow hall, and out the back, into the alley. She looked both ways, made it to the end without being spotted, and noticed a housewife just returning inside after hanging out her washing to dry. Emma snatched a skirt that could be used as a hood to hide her face (she didn't want to tangle up her ability to move), and glanced nervously behind her in anticipation of the innkeeper barreling up, but didn't see him. She wouldn't have long, though. Lowering her head, she broke into a run.

It wasn't far back to the docks. The _Bathsheba_ was moored up just where they'd left it, and Emma entertained a brief and suicidal notion of sneaking aboard and seeing if Will and the others were still there. But as that would blow everything they were risking directly to hell, she couldn't, though she felt it like a physical ache in her heart. There was no way Flint wouldn't find Miranda, even if he had to comb over the entire American colonies to do it, and then he could take care of dishing out justly earned retribution, something he at least was very good at. The thought of what might happen if Miranda was wrong, if Jennings decided to forego any larger plan, and just killed the pirates he already had in custody rather than trying to catch new ones, shriveled Emma's heart into a cold fist. For a moment, she wavered. She could still go back. She could still wait and let this play out however it was going to, come what may.

But then, the memory of the burning _Blackbird_ crept back to her. How it had felt to lose it, and the last miserable two weeks under Jennings' thumb, never knowing if he'd abruptly change his mind and decide to subject her, Miranda, and Merida to something far worse than mere captivity. No. _No,_ she was bloody well not going back and letting that man decide anything else about her future. She didn't know what she felt about the baby yet, but it was _not_ his call. He didn't get to take anything else from her. He didn't get to keep her scared. He didn't get a damn thing more.

Emma tightened her makeshift hood and set her jaw grimly, making her way down to the piers and posing as a merchant's wife who had come to Boston to sell her wares and do her business and now needed passage back home to Cape Cod. She had a few silver pennies sewn into the lining of her boots, the very last of her money, and supposed she'd have to steal anything else she needed. The ring would have been more valuable, but she had had to use that to buy Merida's safety, and she didn't regret it. She only wondered if it would make a damn bit of difference. Will would understand her making a run for it, and probably so would the others, as most pirates were not altruists and not expected to be when the fur was flying, but the knowledge that she had left them in dangerous circumstances would always be in the back of their heads, even if they survived and made their way to Nassau to rejoin whatever new crew she could possibly put together in the late spring of next year. Or earlier, depending on what happened.

Emma made it aboard a small fishing ketch as dusk was falling, spreading deep orange and red ripples over the ink-dark pane of the harbor. It was over sixty miles south to Cape Cod, five or six hours' sailing depending on if the wind held steady, and they wouldn't arrive until very late. The fishermen would unload their catch in the cool night hours, rather than have it spoil under the hot late-summer sun, then sleep until dawn and set out again. Sometime in this, she would have to sneak off, find somewhere to lie low, collect any news of Sam Bellamy's whereabouts and if he had even been in the area recently, then while away however long it took for him to show up. She had considered commandeering a new vessel, but the only craft she could handle alone would be a tiny coracle or single-sailed pirogue, wholly unsuitable for the long voyage back to Nassau. It wasn't as if she could have a leisurely, scenic wander down the coast either, putting in often to resupply, the usual option with a small boat. She was about to turn herself into the most wanted fugitive in the American colonies, and she would have to run and keep running like seven devils were after her. _That part at least I shouldn't have any trouble with._

They pushed off and set sail into the heart of the deepening night. The fishermen knew this route intimately, having crossed it every day at every time and in every weather, but the wind was up and the water was rough. As well, unlike both its parents, the child – at least in this stage of its existence – did not care for the sea at all. Emma barely had anything in her stomach to bring up, but she did anyway, throat burning as she heaved, gagged, and spat. One of the fishermen got her some of their fresh water, but she couldn't keep that down either. At last, to assuage their fears that she might die on them, and since it might dispose them more kindly on her behalf, she told them the truth, which sounded utterly bizarre coming out of her mouth. As if she could just not say it, it would keep it from running away with her. Keep it under control. If only.

They finally made landfall in Cape Cod past midnight. By that point, Emma was feeling too terrible to press on right away, and accepted one of the fishermen inviting her home to pass the night with his family. She hoped that these oblivious, decent people, just trying to do the right thing for a seemingly vulnerable young woman, wouldn't get caught in the crossfire when word began to spread of her escape. Surely someone had noticed by now. Jennings might have taken the _Bathsheba_ out, breathing fire, in hopes of cutting her off. Was he torturing Miranda, trying to make her talk, tell him which way Emma had gone? God, this wasn't worth it, wasn't worth it, wasn't worth it. If by some miracle she did cross paths with Captain Bellamy, she would do her damndest to get him to sail directly back to Boston and blow Jennings sky-high right then and there. To hell with waiting for Flint to do it.

Emma snatched a few light, fitful hours of sleep, tossing and turning, before rousting out at the crack of dawn and continuing on her way. Bellamy's base was in Eastham, a further twenty-five miles down the peninsula, and she managed to get a slow, jolting ride in a hay wagon, which seemed unlikely to arrive before sundown; indeed, about halfway there, she finally got out in exasperation and started to walk. As usual, and considering she had barely had anything to eat in the last few days and thrown up whatever she did, she was ravenously hungry once the sickness passed. So she did her best to forage for berries and nuts, and when she was so starving she couldn't stand it, a loaf of bread from a nearby farmhouse; once she explained her tragic predicament, the wife was quite sympathetic. She was allowed to stay a bit, and slept another few hours. Then, wondering if she'd even notice if she died on her feet, or just keep walking, she set out again.

It was past dusk by the time she arrived. There was no large ship visible in the bay, though there were the usual scatter of fishing boats and smaller vessels, and she swallowed her disappointment and tried to think how to ask about a known pirate (unless Bellamy had likewise concealed his criminal activities from his relatives, thus to avoid extremely awkward family suppers) without raising suspicion. She very much wanted to sink into some soft (or at least flat) bed and sleep for a hundred years, but had to make do with a blanket and a pile of straw offered by another kind householder. Tomorrow. She'd ask tomorrow. Just now, after everything, she was at the end of her rope.

She was woken, sometime deep in the hours of darkness, by the sound of guns.

* * *

From the mouth of the harbor, Boston did not look nearly as impressive as Hook had imagined it. It was definitely a city more than any in the Caribbean, and bigger than anything he had seen since London, but still not so overawing as all that. He could sack it if he had to, he decided, though it would be quite a bit harder than either of his previous targets. Not, however, until he knew what the blazes had happened to Emma. Or even if she was here. It would be most frustrating indeed if they had been on the wildest of wild goose chases, and Jennings had in fact decided to cart her off, for reasons best known to his twisted little mind, to bloody Philadelphia.

He turned away, sizing up his companions. Since the _Walrus_ was clearly recognizable as up to no good, they had not wanted to risk sailing in and drawing attention, even in somewhere as far away and generally as complacent and ignorant of the pirate threat as Boston. The _Jolie Rouge_ still looked like a Navy vessel, and the _Whydah_ like a rich merchant, so they were above suspicion. Bellamy had promised to take them on the fastest route he knew, and he had done just that, thus proving himself as the rarest of men who was actually as good as his word. They had anchored the _Walrus_ just down the coast, left a skeleton crew to guard it, and the men had been divided equally between the other two ships. And being the lucky bastard he was, Hook had been stuck with the half that had Flint. Boundless joy did not begin to describe it.

Flint himself was vociferously unhappy about sailing into this aboard a rival command, even if he agreed to the sense of leaving the _Walrus_ out of sight. It meant he was dependent on either Hook or Bellamy to get him out of there (though he might take the opportunity to go shopping for a nice new ship among the ones at anchor in the harbor) and left him as the strategically weakest member of the triad, even if he was nominally in command of the whole thing. Doubtless he liked it even less that the chances of it working were tied to whether Hook could make best use of his firepower advantage – and more than that, if he knew when to deploy it in the first place. _And_ they had to make it ashore without being arrested the instant they set foot on land. Delicate was not nearly sufficient a word to describe it.

They reached the moorings and tied in, and the three captains disembarked. Hook and Flint fell in behind Bellamy, who was strolling up the pier without a care in the world, joking and greeting the customs officers and accidentally leaving an extra silver penny or three in their palms when he shook their hands. As intended, this worked splendidly to deter the officers from asking their names, the names of their ships, who they were, where they were from, what their business in Boston was, or anything else whatever, and Hook deeply admired this performance. As both he and Flint were inclined to shoot, bash, blow up, or otherwise cause grievous damage in the course of getting their way, he decided at once to cultivate the same sort of gentlemanly, gallant air that Bellamy did so well. It felt better, that way. Defiantly proving to the Navy that he didn't need a damn one of their rules to be good. To be honorable. To be human.

"Well, gentlemen," Bellamy said, when they had reached the city streets. "I have a few ideas for places we can start the search. My old commander, Captain Nolan – "

"Captain Nolan?" Hook interrupted. "Captain _James_ Nolan? You were in the Army?"

"No, the Navy." Bellamy looked puzzled. "I meant – "

"You were in the Navy?" Hook and Flint said in unison.

"Yes. For a few years as a stripling. Not to my taste, so I left." Bellamy shrugged. "My captain wasn't bad, though, as captains went. Captain David Nolan, of HMS _Windsor._ This is its home port, so if he's around, I can leverage a meeting with him. See what he knows of new arrivals, prisoners, or anything of the sort."

"You left the Navy, and you think your old captain will happily receive you and provide critical intelligence to a pirate?" Hook almost had to admire this bravado, even if he was fairly sure it would get Bellamy swung from a yardarm before sunset. "Why the devil – "

"Unlike you two," Bellamy said wryly, "I left without burning down the rest of it behind me. All quite in order, on good terms with everyone, and I'm still friends with Captain Nolan. Trust me, he's not going to hang me."

"Captain Nolan is not a name I have any reason to trust," Hook said coldly. "Back on Antigua, it must be his damn brother or something, James, I'll kill him too if – "

"They're twins," Bellamy said. "From lower-class gentry in Berkshire, seeking to improve its standing by sending its sons to service. David in the Navy, James in the Army. One has managed to end up rather decent, despite all the temptations not to be. The other hasn't."

"You can bloody say that again," Hook muttered. "But if you think even a non-evil Nolan is going to suffer you and two flagrantly infamous ex-Navy officers-turned-pirates walking into his office, and not take the opportunity then and there to make Jennings' job easier for him – "

"He doesn't know you've turned," Bellamy pointed out, with a certain irrefutable logic. "He'd know about Flint, but not about you, not yet. He hates Jennings with an almighty passion, he wouldn't be rushing to invite him to tea. So – "

"No. I'm not asking anything from a Navy captain." Most annoyingly, Hook found himself turning to Flint for backup. "It's insane, aye? Tell him it's insane."

"Aye," Flint said. "It's insane."

" _Thank_ you – "

"However, if our friend Sam here is willing to stick his neck out and do it, there's no reason to stop him. I'll have a look around myself, more effectively. And as he says – " Flint's gaze had that dangerous glint again – "you can go with him."

"What? Christ! No! I'm not going! That's final!"

Five minutes later, Hook was trailing after Bellamy, chewing mutinously over his manifold remaining objections and wondering if death by a thousand scorpion stings was too kind a fate for Flint. This was the worst idea he had ever heard of and he loathed it with every fiber of his being, even as he was aware that he would have to keep his composure around Captain Nolan the second and not immediately punch him out for the crimes of his brother. Would have to hope that Bellamy was not vastly overestimating his ability to pull this off. He had been as good as advertised thus far, but this would be a terrible time to come up short.

The _Windsor_ was nearly the exact same size and firepower as the _Imperator-_ turned _-Jolie-Rouge:_ three masts and sixty guns, though just a bit shorter in the beam and lighter in the draft, and it gave Hook a brief turn to see it. He had never envisioned that their grand strategy for sneaking in unnoticed would involve literally walking right up to the Navy garrison and announcing their presence, and he stood shifting tensely from foot to foot as Bellamy genially hailed the sailors and got someone to see if Captain Nolan was in. The power of that handsome charm could not be underestimated, and Hook discovered that he was taking intent mental notes. He possessed at least the raw material to make it a most successful stratagem for himself, and as something more than merely an angry young ex-lieutenant on a destructive rampage. Flint had fashioned himself a new name and a new persona, leaving James McGraw behind, and Hook could do the same for his abandonment of Killian Jones. Mix Bellamy's manners with Flint's terrors, and you would have a most potent brew indeed.

A few minutes later, Captain David Nolan himself emerged, giving Hook another unpleasant turn. He looked exactly like his wretched brother, the one who had held him down as Jennings cut off his hand, and he was tensed to the brink of fleeing, as Bellamy put a hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. Then Bellamy stepped forward, smiling and brimming with apparently genuine joy to see his friend again, and the two men shook hands and slapped shoulders, David Nolan voicing surprise and confusion to see him back in Boston. Had he not heard certain rumors of Bellamy's new profession, of a rather less law-abiding bent?

Bellamy smiled, made self-deprecating remarks, avoided the question, and got around to introducing his companion, Killian. It was strange to hear someone say that name, as it had already fled so thoroughly from him that he now preferred to refer to himself, even in his own thoughts, as Hook. But as the gauntlet had been cast, and it was too late to turn back now, he stepped forward. "So, Nolan. Do you know anything about the whereabouts or activities of Henry Jennings, or is that something you're also paid to overlook?"

David Nolan blinked at this barely-veiled hostility. "Excuse me? Do we have some history I'm not recalling?"

"I know your bloody brother," Hook said tightly. Even if Emma's fate might be hanging in the balance – or perhaps because he knew it was – he could not bring himself to be smarmy and obsequious with some Navy idiot. "I take it you can imagine what that makes me think of pressing flesh with you."

Nolan blinked, then got an exasperated, resigned expression that almost, briefly, made Hook recognize something familiar in him. As someone who was almost always defined by his brother, by Liam's activities, by Liam's choices, by Liam's reputation – and in the end, Liam's failings – he could at least understand that David Nolan might chafe just as much at constantly being tarred with James' notoriety. But just as with Flint, acknowledging similarity did not give him any especial desire to be friends. David could help, or get out of the bloody way.

"Well," Nolan said, after a moment. "I'm sorry you've decided to expect the worst of me. But I actually do know that Jennings has recently arrived in Boston, with some captives he supposedly took off a pirate ship he sunk. He also had some disturbing rumors about something terrible happening to Antigua. You wouldn't be familiar with any of these?"

"Not a one," Hook said. "Where the hell are the captives?"

Nolan crossed his arms. "I have to tell you why?"

"Ah, come now, Dave," Sam Bellamy said. "He's had a rough fortnight. Do the man a favor."

Nolan looked rather startled at being addressed with such informality by one of his sailors, even a former one who was now a captain of his own. "Fine. He took a few of them to some dismal tavern by the waterfront, I don't know what he did with the others – the _Bathsheba_ is somewhere on the quays, they're likely still aboard. Then he came here, to inform me that when one Captain James Flint arrived, we were to sink his vessel on sight and kill all his men, except the captain himself." He regarded both of them suspiciously. "Are you aware of the presence of such an individual in Boston? You would, of course, be lawfully compelled to tell me if you were."

"Haven't heard of him," Hook said. "Sounds like a stupid bloke."

"Jennings is a rat-fink filthy bastard who I wouldn't trust to tell me the sky was blue, if up was up and down was down, or he had just one arsehole instead of twelve," Bellamy chimed in. "Are you really going to listen to anything _he_ says?"

"It doesn't matter if I like him or not, I have to uphold the law, and if that would involve apprehending a known pirate and threat to the security of the – "

"Bloody hell, forget it," Hook snapped. "We're not getting anything out of this plank. Come on, Bellamy, we'd best get going before Jennings cottons onto us and decides to – "

"He's captured someone of your acquaintance?" Nolan looked at him narrowly. "A pirate?"

"A woman, you dimwit. Her name is Emma, and I'd really rather like to find out what happened to her. You can help me do that, if your insufferably virtuous sort can stomach it, or you can go back to your ship and leave us to it. I don't advise interfering."

Nolan's eyes went even narrower, as he could certainly tell a threat when he heard one. But likewise, the thought of a lady in Jennings' hands was enough to make him reconsider. "Fine," he said. "I can't help you, but you have three hours. Find her and get out, or I'm obligated to chase you down, find out who you really are, and apply the proper sanctions of the law. Go."

Hook and Bellamy nodded, pivoted on their heels nearly in unison, and started to trot. Hook's knuckles were still aching with the missed opportunity to punch David, both for his annoyingly upright black-and-white view of things and just in case it would rattle James' teeth back in Antigua, but if they had a small window of time in which the captain would leave them to it, they couldn't waste it. They picked up speed, wending back down to the street, as Bellamy said he was fairly sure he knew which tavern Nolan meant. They dodged and weaved through carts, mules, horses, beggars, soldiers, sailors, merchants, magistrates, fishwives, urchins, dogs, and rats, finally arriving on the stoop, shoving the door open without the ceremony of a knock, and –

"Well, well." Captain Henry Jennings rose to his feet, pale eyes alight with savage glee. _"You?_ Aren't you the resilient little cockroach, Jones? So determined of you to come all the way here, I honestly can say I was not expecting it. Good to know the world is still capable of surprising me."

Bellamy removed one of the dueling pistols from his sash, pointed it at Jennings, and cocked it. "I'd start talking, shitstain. Now."

"Oh, did you find a new pretty boy, Sam?" Jennings reached for his own pistol. "For all you talk of returning to marry your one true love, I think you'd rather be knee-deep in cock than in cunt any day. This one seems about good for that, so – "

"Where the hell is she?" Hook removed his own pistol and joined Bellamy in pointing the business end at Jennings. _"Where are they?"_

"The women?" A slow, malicious grin spread across Jennings' face, and he held out his hand. "That _is_ who you mean, yes? Emma Swan, your little lover? Does this look at all familiar?"

Hook looked – and felt his stomach turn a sickening backflip. "That's my ring. _That's my ring._ You fucking bastard! Where is she? _Where is she?!"_

Jennings pulled a long hank of bloodstained blonde hair out of his belt. "Dead. I've done you a favor, frankly. And I'm sure one day you'll see it as such, so don't jump to conclusions and – "

The rest of his words were drowned out by the rushing in Hook's ears. It was white noise, the world coming unpinned and reeling away into nothing. His finger was frozen on the trigger; he couldn't even shoot Jennings right then and there and put an end to it. He was completely shattered, undone, falling and then falling farther, the ground crumbling beneath his feet until he was no longer even certain it had ever existed. Before, he had raged, had burned, had destroyed, had lashed out. This wasn't even that. He was numb. He was nothing.

Bellamy was saying something, still holding Jennings at gunpoint, even as Jennings was holding him right back. Hook didn't hear or pay attention or take any notice of it. His own pistol fell from his nerveless fingers to the floor, and he couldn't bend to pick it up. He was turning, he was shoving through the door, he was floating back down the streets toward the docks, toward the _Jolie Rouge._ There was nowhere he could sail that would be far enough away. There was nothing he could do that would ever be enough. His spine had been snapped, his legs broken. He wanted to crawl into every hole there was, and never, ever come out. Go to sleep, and never wake up.

His men were looking at him concernedly, asking questions, if they were really intending to just turn around and leave after such trouble and effort to get here. He didn't want to. He wanted to open up the guns and leave Boston a smoking ruin, char it off the face of the earth for all time. But if she was still there somewhere, if her body would burn with the rest of them – he couldn't stand it, he couldn't bloody stand it, and his knees went briefly out from under him, until he had to clutch at the rail, half-collapsing. He remained bent double, utterly done for.

Someone must have ordered them to get out of the bay, because that was what they seemed to be doing. He didn't recall if it was him or not. He couldn't hear anyone's voices, much less his own. There wasn't even anything to take its place. Just silence.

Someone else tried to get him to go into his cabin, to sit down, to have a drink. He didn't want that either. He sat against the railing, staring at nothing, making no sound or movement, trying to disintegrate on the spot. _No more. No more._

It was only the repeated shouts close in his ear that got his attention. There was another ship on the horizon, closing quickly – a light frigate, a merchant by the looks of things, a tempting target, and they wanted to know if he intended to give the order to pursue and capture. This close to Boston, it was a risky venture, but they could still pull it off, and leave a mark on their way out the door, take vengeance for what had been done – if he said so, they could cut her off from the wind and be on her like a hawk, if it helped, Captain, if it helped –

Hook slowly unfurled the spyglass, staring at the incoming vessel. Even in his devastated state, it fought through the numbing haze, something seemed familiar about it. A frigate, aye. One that he was fairly – no, certain – he recognized, having stolen its guns and murdered its men not that long before. And there on the deck, the captain –

Oh God.

No. Yes. _No._

Liam.


	19. XIX

**-XIX-**

The moonlight paved a dazzling trail on the dark water, veiled then and odd by clouds as ragged and eerie as a drowned king's banners, and outlined the stark black shapes of the two ships less than a thousand yards offshore, all their lamps quenched, lit only by the flare and thunder of their guns. The deep, echoing booms rolled across the low sand dunes, lanterns and torches starting to be lit as the locals of Eastham emerged in confusion and consternation to see what in damnation was going on. This was a small, sleepy Puritan hamlet of no real importance, which rarely saw a rated Royal Navy ship of the line or indeed anything larger than their everyday sloops and yawls, and now they had a full-scale sea battle going on in their front yard. Emma's eyes swept the combatants, trying to pick out any identifying details, and her heart missed a beat as the smaller, two-masted one came hard about, trying to strafe its opponent with a head-on barrage. After spending a fortnight aboard that ship, and everything else its existence and its master had seared into her, she was not about to mistake it in a hurry. The _Bathsheba,_ it was the bloody fucking _Bathsheba._ Jennings was here – he'd found her somehow, he must have tortured it out of Miranda, or made a lucky guess – God, she had to run, but she couldn't get away anywhere fast enough, and all he had to do was scoop her up and –

Fighting down the rising tide of panic, Emma stared wildly at Jennings' opponent, a large three-master she didn't recognize. Not the _Walrus,_ not the – she hated herself for the brief, desperate prick of hope – the _Jolie Rouge._ Whoever it was, it was commanded by the one man in the world who stood between her and her chances of dying before sunrise, and as such, she was deeply invested in his victory. But there was something strange about the way he was fighting. He was close to double Jennings' strength – the _Bathsheba_ only carried twenty guns, and this dark horse, judging from muzzle flashes, had at least thirty. Yet he was holding back, on the defensive, taking shots without an overly aggressive attempt to return them. Malingering, perhaps? Trying to look weaker than he was, to lure Jennings into making a critical mistake? But that was the kind of stratagem that Emma was used to employing herself, fighting with eighteen guns on the _Blackbird_ against stronger enemies. It was not one that made sense when you should already have the firepower advantage to take down your adversary outright.

"Come on!" Emma hissed under her breath. "What are you waiting for? Just shoot him!"

And yet, the mystery captain didn't. He kept letting Jennings gain ground. Was this possibly not a clever trick at all, but just sheer incompetence? That her life was hanging in the balance, and an idiot was holding the scales? How on earth had they ended up here in no-account Eastham anyway, where Jennings – even if he won – could sack a dozen cottages, burn a few barns, steal a pig or chicken, and not much more? Hardly glorious spoils. He might be looking for her, but to lure an enemy all the way out here and then waste so much time with this inconclusive, circuitous, dragged-out stage mummery of a gunfight wouldn't be any use unless –

At that moment, Emma finally figured out what she prayed to God was actually going on here, and her jaw dropped. She didn't want to get her hopes up, didn't dare, but a searing streak of it burned through her, as she suddenly viewed the unfolding events as the work not of a plodding dunce, but instead a downright genius. Keep Jennings distracted, far away from Boston, thinking he could win, eating up time, and otherwise setting the stage for someone to actually arrive in the city, rescue the prisoners without distraction, and get the buggering hell out of there. Someone, say, who might coincidentally happen to be named Captain James Flint.

Petrified but mesmerized, Emma still didn't want to stick her neck out too far in case she was wrong, and this was in fact just a blundering buffoon with no grasp of basic tactics and a bizarre choice of battleground. But even as she watched, she could see the tenor of the fight starting to shift. Jennings had maneuvered dangerously close to shore, in an attempt to run up on his enemy's apparently weakened starboard quarter. It was then, all at once, that the full broadside which had been held off, for one reason or another, finally made its appearance. The entire beach shook under Emma's feet as the guns boomed one after another, striking the stunned _Bathsheba_ with sparks and splinters and sending it reeling toward land. In minutes, in moments, it would be too far up the tide race to avoid going aground, and then it would be done for.

And yet, loathsome an individual as he was, Henry Jennings was nonetheless, and unfortunately, a very good captain. Straightaway realizing that he had been outplayed, wounded, and critically delayed, he did not waste an instant trying to compete against an enemy that had just revealed itself to be far more formidable than expected. The _Bathsheba_ swung and veered as hard as it could (Emma always thought of that ship as an _it;_ she didn't think Jennings deserved the dignity of any woman, even one of wood and canvas), firing a covering volley from its stern guns, but clearly on its heels and retreating further. The mystery ship got in a few parting shots, but clearly likewise regarded its job as done, and did not move to actively pursue. Christ, she hoped this newcomer was someone she could work with. An enemy of Jennings was a friend of hers, but if this was one of Boston's Navy commands – though Jennings should be insulated from that, as an agent of the government himself – then their views of pirates were likely to be even dimmer.

Seeing that the main event was over, the folk of Eastham were starting to drift back into their houses, though not without nervous glances over their shoulders in case the other ship now decided to fire on them, or storm the beach. It didn't. Instead it dropped anchor, a boat was launched, and Emma took a few steps up the sand, preparing to run for it if it was someone of an unfriendly persuasion. But the talk and laughter sounded familiar, the silhouettes that jumped into the shallows and pulled the boat on shore were reassuringly scruffy and lawless-looking, and the moonlight caught on sabers, pistols, blunderbusses, hatchets, and other hodgepodges of weaponry. These weren't Navy sailors, and they weren't eccentrically dressed merchants, either. They were pirates, and the man at their head, wearing four pistols on his sash –

Emma let out a gasping breath of relief, not even wanting to calculate the odds of this happening right when she needed it to, but deciding that after the utterly terrible last month she had had, the world rather owed it on account. She managed to get her frozen legs into motion, hurrying across the sand toward them. "Bellamy?" she blurted out. "Sam Bellamy?"

He turned in surprise, reaching out to catch her as she skidded and almost fell on the slippery, shell-strewn dunes. "Not even a minute on land and a woman wants to throw herself into my arms?" he said with a grin. "I think that's a record, even for me."

"I – no, that's – " Emma brushed herself off, flustered. "My name is – my name is Emma Swan. I was told that if I could find you, I could trust you. I'm a captain on Nassau, but my ship – Jennings sank it, he took me and a few survivors prisoner, along with – "

"Swan? Emma _Swan?"_ Bellamy's disbelief was evident. "Bloody hell, aren't you dead?"

"What?"

"Aye." Noticing she was shivering in the cold night wind, Bellamy took off his heavy velvet coat and draped it around her shoulders. "Fuck of a long story, but the gist of it is, Flint and some other intriguing fellow recruited me to serve as part of their plan to retrieve two captive ladies in Boston. Well, we got there, but Jennings shat in the stew as only he can, told us you were dead, pulled out some bloody chunk of blonde hair – don't want to think where he got it, frankly – and threw us for a wicket. Hook. . . didn't take it well. Dropped everything, cut and ran. Flint and I had to pull together a plan on the fly, and that involved me getting Jennings the blazing cock and balls away from the city so he could – what?"

"I'm sorry." Emma was sure she couldn't have heard correctly, that the hunger and the hardship and the sickness and the muddle had finally gotten to her. "Did you say Hook?That's who you and Flint were working with? _Hook?"_

"Aye," Bellamy said again, looking even more confused. "Real name's Killian, but he doesn't seem to fancy it much. And as I said, he outright broke in half when he heard you were dead, so I'm wagering you two know each other?"

"I – yes. Yes, actually, we do." Emma couldn't quite catch her breath, couldn't hold back her first, instinctive reaction – a relief, a disbelief, a stunned gratitude so profound that it almost made her weak in the knees. "He. . . he tried to rescue me?"

"Bit more than tried, really." Bellamy offered her his arm. "Grumped and harrumphed and glowered his way through it, sure, but I've rarely seen a man more determined, or more utterly a shell of himself when Jennings pulled that bastard's trick of his. You weren't expecting that?"

"The last time we saw each other, he told me he'd sink my ship himself if he had the chance, and that he didn't want anything to do with me ever again." Emma still felt dizzied by this evident and complete reversal – and, despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, she couldn't quite rid herself of the sensation that the sun had abruptly come out from behind the clouds, warming her from head to heel. "No, you can say I wasn't expecting it."

"Ah." Bellamy raised a dark eyebrow. "Take it from me, he's either an idiot or a bloody liar. He can taradiddle about not doing it for you all he wants, but don't pay him the slightest bit of attention. I saw his face. Sometimes it takes a shock like that to be honest with yourself."

To say the least, Emma had not expected to be candidly discussing the shambles of her personal life with her rescuer five minutes after acquaintance, but then, she had expected nothing else about this entire mess either, so that wasn't much to go on. "You said he left Boston?"

"Aye. Not sure where he went, but he left us in the lurch. Still, enough about him, you're freezing. I can see you back to my ship, if you like. There will be a comfortable berth, and food and drink. We'll tarry in Eastham a day or two, then it's off to the Spanish wrecks."

"The Spanish wrecks?" Emma repeated in surprise. "You have the coordinates?"

"I do. That was the price for my help, as Flint and Hook both said they'd been there and could provide them. Which I made sure they did, before we went in. Why?"

"It's just – I've been there too, I can check them over, if you want. But is it possible that you could return me to Nassau?"

"What's in Nassau that's so important? Come with me to the wrecks. Half shares of everything I take, and I've a particular knack for capturing ships. Yours was destroyed, and that's regrettable, but we can get you a new one. What kind do you want? Special requests?"

"It. . . you're very generous, but it's complicated." Emma came to a halt, turning to face him. "Your offer to take me a new ship is appreciated, but I don't have a crew. Jennings killed most of my men outright, and left me five or six – who are now back in Boston with Flint, _assuming_ that he managed to rescue them and Miranda while you were distracting Jennings. And I. . ." She wet her lips. This was not getting any easier to say out loud. "I'm. . . I'm pregnant."

Bellamy blinked. "Well then, congratulations are in order. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm going to guess that the father of said sprog has already come up in this conversation?"

"I. . . yes." Emma looked down at the sand. "Hence why, even if I wanted to get back into the pirating life right away, it would be difficult. But I can't afford to go eight months without any income, sitting on my hands, and I'm not interested in throwing myself onto Kil – Hook's charity, just because of an accident. Honestly, I don't know what to do."

"You're welcome on the _Whydah_ if you'd like to join my crew," Bellamy said. "There'd be no trouble with the men, they follow my example and they'd think no less of you being a woman. As for the child, we pay out from the communal treasure hoard in the event of an injury or illness or other unavoidable circumstance that renders any member unable to fight, and we've recently had quite a successful few months, so some of that for you shouldn't be a difficulty. We can reconnoiter with Flint and retrieve your survivors, too. What do you say?"

Emma was taken aback and touched. "Captain Bellamy, that – that's very good of you. But I – if we did that, I don't suppose there'd be any chance of finding. . . finding Hook?"

Bellamy cocked his head, studying her. "I thought you said you didn't want his charity?"

"I don't. I just. . . if he did actually come to rescue me. . ." Emma prided herself on being fairly well-spoken, but all her words were failing her and jumbling in her throat. "If it's not true that he doesn't want anything to do with me, then, well, it. . . it could be worth a try. And if he thinks I'm dead, it might. . . not be the best thing for him."

"Well," Bellamy said. "I can assure you, as I mentioned, that it's not something he's enjoying. We can have a look, but he's more than likely long gone, and I don't want to promise anything I can't deliver. If we stumble across him on our way south, you can have a chat, but if the answer isn't what you want to hear, then what?"

"I'll worry about that later," Emma said. "I don't even know what answer I _do_ want to hear. At the moment, if your offer stands, I could very much use a proper bed and sleep."

"Of course. My first mate, Mr. Paulsgrave Williams, will see you to the ship. I have a visit to make, though I've left strict orders that I should be interrupted, however little I might like it, if that bastard Jennings pops his nose up again. I don't think he should, though."

"Thank you. Do you – do you want your coat back?"

"Keep it," Bellamy said with a wink. "I don't expect to be wearing many clothes soon, anyway."

Emma coughed, allowed him to kiss her hand with much éclat, then turned to the waiting Mr. Williams, as Bellamy headed up the sand en route to what was clearly a secret midnight tryst with a waiting lover – Maria or Mary or whatever her name was, the local woman he supposedly meant to marry. Emma got onto the boat with the other men, and they rowed out to the _Whydah,_ helped her aboard, and insisted that she take the captain's cabin. It was not as large or spacious as some others, as he had removed and rebuilt a good deal of it in order to fit in more guns, but it was still the best lodging she had had in weeks, with a roomy, comfortable bed (Bellamy clearly being the sort of man for whom this was very important) and a door that shut and barred. After she had done so, she leaned against it, clutched hold, and let out a gasping breath, feeling safe for the first time since – since, if she was being honest, that night with Killian at Miranda's house on Nassau. She wondered if that was when they had made this child, this strange little idea that was barely more than bad seasickness and the promise of an especially uncertain future. Hearing that he had tried his utmost to rescue her, only to be felled by another despicable trick from Jennings, had had a definite effect on her feelings about the baby as well. She couldn't say there had been some sudden upwelling of love and happiness about it, because there hadn't, but she didn't feel as shocked and afraid as she had a few days ago, either.

Emma stripped down to her shift, climbed into Bellamy's silk sheets, and pulled the heavy counterpane up, sinking with a groan into the featherbed. She lay there with eyes closed, arms and legs akimbo, letting the sheer relief soak through her like warm wine, lulled by the gentle rocking of the ship at anchor beneath her. She had to admit, joining his crew was certainly not the worst choice she had, and indeed, might well be the best. He was rich, successful, gallant, and generous, not someone who would make her work for every inch of trust he ever gave her and constantly be a threat to stab her in the back if he didn't (unlike certain unnamed persons). It would be a nice wakeup call for Flint, reminding him that she had other options, and far more congenial ones at that. And if Bellamy did steal her a new ship, his patronage and recommendation should help her enlist a crew much faster than one painstaking recruit at a time. It was remarkable how optimistic she was suddenly feeling.

As much as she wanted to stay awake just a bit longer to savor it, her exhaustion overtook her, and she plunged into a deep, dreamless stupor. When she returned to consciousness, sunlight was pouring through the diamonded windows, prying at her eyelids, and she had the sensation that if she did not move at all, she would stay perfectly balanced, motionless, the still point at the center of a rushing river. Weightless. Boundless. Endless.

Emma held onto it as long as she could, until she could feel reality starting to unhappily horn back in – her stomach was in its usual morning turmoil, her throat was parched with thirst, and she desperately needed the services of the ornate chamber pot beneath the bed. Once she had made disagreeable use of it, she wiped her mouth, sat back on her heels, and took a moment to recollect herself. Real sleep had been good for her, but now it came time to make decisions. She could see if Bellamy was interested in detouring back to Boston straightaway, thus to reconnect with Flint, but that would not be a wise idea. If Flint _had_ cleaned the dungeons out of several valuable captives, not to mention the deleterious effects of an angry and cheated Jennings, the entire city would be in an uproar, and it would do no one any good, least of all her, to sail right back into the middle of it. No, they had to stay clear. Make south. If Bellamy wanted to entangle himself in the confusion of the Spanish wrecks, he had certainly at least earned the opportunity to try, and Killian had to be heading somewhere in that general direction. Would he burn and sack another important harbor, thinking she was dead, or was that giving his feelings for her far too much credit? Nor did she want to be the motivating factor for another destructive rampage, especially after seeing what he had done to Jamaica. Whatever he had done to Antigua, the first target for his rage and betrayal and heartbreak, must have been even worse.

Emma winced, reminding herself of what Miranda had said about not taking the blame for his choices. She had done the only thing she reasonably should have – it would have been far more foolhardy and dangerous for her, a pirate, to voluntarily stay with the Navy. And yet, that same uncomfortably honest little voice knew that if she _had_ stayed on the _Imperator,_ she would have been just as safe, if not safer, than she was now. That Killian wasn't about to let anyone or anything lay a finger on her, far less hang her, no matter how complicated things had been, and that she likewise felt the same about him. And that she had run, taking Billy with her, precisely because she was so afraid of that, and how easily she had simply known it. Rationalized it, salted it away, done her best to live with it, to forget, even if she couldn't. She was not the reason that "Captain Hook" had turned from tenuous pretense to terrible reality. But she was not blameless either, and that was not something for which she could blithely or quickly forgive herself.

Getting to her feet slowly, Emma waited a moment, decided that the internal theatrics had settled for now, and hoped it wasn't going to keep up for the next three months. She hadn't started feeling this ill with Henry until at least a few weeks later, although it was hard to remember for certain because she had been young, ignorant, scared, heartbroken, and still hoping Neal would come back. While there had been a few deeply unpleasant spells, it had passed more or less quickly, and with any luck, that would be the precedent for this one. She had at least one more long sea voyage back to the Caribbean to go, and did not want to keel over of dehydration and starvation from constant vomiting before she got there.

"Hey," she said aloud, feeling foolish, but there was no one present to hear. She prodded pointedly at her stomach, not that there was anything noticeable there. "Cooperate with me, all right? I didn't anticipate ending up with you either, so let's just. . . be cordial enemies for now, instead of outright ones. Works better for both of us, trust me. Got it?"

Obviously, no stirring response was made, so she sighed, reached for her clothes, and got dressed, emerging onto the deck. Food still sounded like a stretch, but she took a few sips of watered-down ale, rinsing her mouth with it and finally consenting to nibble on a chunk of bread. While she was working on it, Mr. Williams came up to the railing where she was standing, politely removing his hat in the presence of a lady. "Miss Swan, good morning. I hope you're feeling better?"

"It's slightly relative at the moment, I'm afraid," Emma said wryly. "But yes, far better than before, thank you. Do you think it's wise to stay anchored here in the bay, in broad daylight? I understand we have to wait for Bellamy to return from his. . . occupations, but especially after what happened last night, someone could raise the alarm and find us here."

Williams smiled. "I doubt it in the extreme, madam. The captain is very generous around these parts. Brings them money every time he passes through, handles any local troublemaker who's giving them grief, and charges no tax at all to do it. Small wonder they vastly prefer him to His Majesty's rapacious local government – they might be sternly Puritan to look at, and most of the time to act as, but you've seen how good he is at getting folk to eat from his hand."

"I can imagine that would make a difference, yes." Emma looked at him curiously. "Much better than burning their outcasts as witches, as I've heard they're wont to do in Salem. You're an educated man, then?"

"My father is the attorney general of Rhode Island," the first mate said. "John Williams. I also had some modest fame as a silversmith and jeweler before I took up with Bellamy, so my family is known and respected in the area. So you can see, we're quite safe. Don't worry."

"Ah." Emma supposed that Cape Cod clearly _was_ Bellamy's home port, not just somewhere he was marginally less likely to be hanged than the rest of the world. It was surprising and exciting to think that no matter the drum Flint constantly beat about Nassau, there were havens for their kind in other places than merely a few isolated islands in the Bahamas – not that she would be wise to start letting down her guard and strolling into every city. "You're an attorney general's son, born to a life of wealth and privilege, and you decide to turn pirate? Why?"

"Far more adventure than keeping books, sweltering in a courtroom, or reading the law all day," Williams remarked wryly. "And I never cared for those fussy little periwigs they have to wear. Bellamy is a great man, you know. You won't find better. I'd strongly advise staying."

From her experience so far, Emma couldn't gainsay this. She certainly was in no haste to leave, as it was rather literally a world of sharks out there for her right now, and assured Paulsgrave Williams that his captain's offer was a compelling one. It was also plain that Bellamy was in no haste to leave either; he had more than held up his end of the bargain with Hook and Flint, humiliated and driven off Jennings, and rescued the maiden fair, so he could feel entirely justified in some leisure time. Not too long, since as he said, the Spanish wrecks and the promise of fame and fortune awaited, but the day passed uneventfully, with no sign of him. Emma ate dinner with the crew, enjoying their conspicuous attempts to mind their manners despite herself. She was used to being one of the lads, since she was no fussy highborn damsel prone to swooning dead away at the sight of a hairy arse, and the general rough-and-tumble air and coarse humor of a pirate ship. She didn't want Bellamy's men underestimating her or considering her a frail flower, such as when Killian had been terrified that he had tarnished her innocence by uttering the word "bloody" to her face, but it was still a bit nice to have them actively behaving themselves and treating her with especial regard, as both an honored guest and a lady with child. If pirates could ever be heroes, Bellamy had that down. No wonder he stayed far from Nassau. They'd compete to take him down at once, and he deserved better than those wolves.

Emma went to sleep in Bellamy's cabin again, and woke the next morning to find that the captain himself had returned sometime in the night and was fast asleep on the davenport, beneath his coat, where he had chosen to repose rather than disturb her. She unfortunately could not return the favor, having the morning nonsense to get over with, which made him stir and blink. "Eh, lass? You all right?"

"I'm fine, sorry." Emma spat weakly. "Early days, you know. I didn't mean to put you out of your own bed."

"No trouble, no trouble at all." Bellamy sat up, tying his disordered hair out of his face. "Madam, can I ask you a question? I'm having difficulty, and I need a woman's advice."

"Oh?" Emma grinned. "I didn't think you had difficulty with women."

"Neither did I," Bellamy said, looking peeved. Evidently, while not approaching the snarled mess of hers, his intimate life was not going well either. "I proposed to my Mariah last night that we forget about her fool father, just elope, and sail off to have adventures and win glory together, but she refused! Said that she still wanted his blessing, and it would be unforgivable if we did such a thing to him. Hang the old bastard, what about _me?_ Why on earth would she say no? Is it that she doesn't love me as much as I thought? What did I do wrong?"

He looked like such a lost puppy that Emma had to grin. She could guess that Bellamy, as was understandable for a handsome, rich, popular, admired man used to getting his way in everything, could not possibly fathom why anyone would want to do anything than be with him all the time and bask in his luster. He was good-natured about it, rather than malicious, and he used it to scatter largesse to everyone he met, but it still did leave him rather oblivious on the finer points of interpersonal relationships. "Not every woman wants to live aboard a ship with a hundred and fifty other men and be wet and seasick and caught in the middle of battles and expected to do all the washing and cooking and cleaning by mere virtue of her presence," she explained patiently. "I am sure you don't mean to make Mariah be the _Whydah's_ maid, but she might end up as it nonetheless, and a good Puritan girl can't necessarily break free of the strictures of her father and family that have held her all her life. Doubtless she loves the idea of you, but, well. . . that can be quite different from the reality."

Bellamy absorbed this pensively, frowning. "What if I gave her more jewelry?"

"I'm not sure Puritans look favorably on that," Emma remarked. "Gaud and adornments and everything else they complain about. Mariah is risking quite a lot to even continue seeing you in the first place, if her father hasn't liked you from the start. You want her to be a pirate wife, and she wants you to be a Puritan husband. One of them has to give."

"Well, they're a bunch of repressed, joyless sods, so I'm not doing that," Bellamy said decisively. "There has to be another way to persuade her."

"You have to let her make up her own mind," Emma said, feeling a faint pang at the realization that this conversation most certainly did not only apply to Mariah Hallett, and the choices she would have to make about what, if anything, she was willing to give up for her pirate lover. It was easy to sit here and give sisterly advice to Bellamy, explaining the pressures of two competing worlds, when that was not even her dilemma. At least, not exactly. Her and Killian's worlds, at least insofar as the pirating went, were the same. But the private worlds in which they both lived, fiercely independent, not daring to open their gates and make treaties, were far more dangerous and remote. Like Bellamy and his Mariah, one of their stubborn insistences on having it their own way would have to yield, and she didn't know where or how or which.

"Well," Bellamy said. "That's rather annoying. But I don't suppose that Robin Hood ever had to carry off his Maid Marian by force and trickery, so I shall refrain from telling her that her father suddenly died and expressed his last wish that his daughter be instantly married to a dashing black-haired pirate." He paused, considered, then added, "You _are_ going to make an effort to get Hook back, aren't you? Because if you're not, I may just try instead."

Emma giggled, slightly shocked. "I – I don't think it's getting him back. We weren't exactly ever together. Why, did you want to have a go?"

Bellamy raised an eyebrow roguishly, but his tone wasn't entirely joking. "Did you know, the French have something, and pirate laws adopted it, that is called matelotage? It's a binding contract between two fellow sailors to share everything, life and plunder and quarters and aye, a bed or a woman or any other pleasure they please. The English Navy hanged – still does, you know – anyone found preferring the company of a man, despite the fact that half their officers must have forcibly buggered the recruits. It was one of the reasons I decided it prudent to leave. I enjoy women greatly, but I also enjoy what they enjoy about men, and that, well, that would have gotten me killed." He shrugged. "When I turned pirate and discovered that matelots could live together, jointly own property, be paid bereavement when a partner was killed, and other such arrangements, I saw that I was not the only one. Indeed, at one point some years ago the governor of Tortuga requested an emergency shipment of whores, thinking to cut down on the number of such unions taking place – and I doubt there was anyone who ever said that the one thing Tortuga needed was more whores! Why, then, is it such a crime?"

"It's not. I just. . ." Emma paused, then smiled wryly. "I didn't want you as the competition."

"Ah, you're ahead of me anyway," Bellamy said, without rancor. "And I somehow suspect that the only thing less likely to make Mariah's father give me his blessing would be for me to turn up having married another man, a pirate captain to boot, already. I don't mind sharing at all – the more the merrier – but Mariah does not feel the same, alas. Besides, I don't think I'm the sort your Hook fancies. If we can find him, you'll have no underhanded dealings from me."

"Thank you." Emma hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "I owe you more than I can repay, Captain Bellamy. I won't forget it."

"Ah, name the lad Samuel." Bellamy winked. "Or Samantha for a lass. Or, for that matter, just help me get a good share of that Spanish treasure, and name her Porpentina Esmeralda Henrietta, though I have no idea why you'd inflict that on a helpless infant. Come, let's set sail."

"Aye. Just. . ." She hesitated. "One more question. Before we go."

"Of course."

"You outnumber Jennings in guns. You clearly knew what you were doing, strategically wasting his time and then going in for the kill. But you didn't _actually_ do it. I was just wondering if there was some reason you didn't sink him. You let him get away."

"I did try, you know," Bellamy pointed out. "If he'd gone aground, I'd have blasted bleeding Jesus out of the ship and ensured it couldn't go anywhere else. But he didn't, and. . . Jennings is a vile turd, we all know that. I doubt his crew is much better. And as I said, I specialize in taking ships. However, I do it as bloodlessly as possible. I've never killed a captive or an innocent man, and I'm proud of that. I had done my job, made sure he couldn't interfere in anything that was going on in Boston that night, and seriously annoyed him, as well as badly damaging the _Bathsheba_. Aye, I could have caught him up and taken him, or done that even beforehand. But I didn't want to become a mass murderer on his account. And if I had butchered them all in cold blood, I would have. I'd be no better than him. Whatever flaws and foibles I may have, I am damn fucking well better than Henry Jennings, and I'm not a hypocrite about that."

Emma was once more surprised by the intensity of his tone, devoid of his usual jokes and quips. She had thought she was the only pirate (well, among the precious few) who had personal discomfort with the necessities of fighting and killing their opponents outright. Pirates were usually fairly understanding of slaves and pressed men and others who didn't want to be where they were, allowing captives a chance to join their crews and to turn against particularly oppressive masters. But they also rarely scrupled at a good head-bashing when said sailors proved recalcitrant or remained loyal to England or their captain or anything or anyone else standing in the way of their aims. She had wondered if Bellamy's reluctance to take down Jennings and his entire crew betokened some kind of weakness, or even some secret desire to play both sides, because she was so long conditioned to the cutthroat morality of Nassau, where that usually was the case. Maybe she needed the reminder that choices mattered. That being this, whatever they were, did not mean swimming deep, so deep, and never coming up again. That perhaps, no matter how far down you were, there was still light on the water, somewhere very far above, and it was worth fighting for.

"I see," she said quietly. "But Jennings needs to be stopped, we both know that. And if you were faced with him again, would you do it this time? No matter what it demanded of you?"

Bellamy looked up at her. "I think the question is," he said, standing as she held out his coat for him to shrug on. "Would you?"

* * *

As they came within firing range of the ship – of _his_ ship – as he could see the black flag flying in place of the Union Jack, the gun ports hauled open and ready for battle if the order was given, Liam experienced a moment of disorientation so profound it was nearly as if he had left his own body. Here he was, closing into the moment of reckoning with the other half of himself, his entire past and future, when it was literally life or death. He didn't know if Killian had seen him, what he had thought if so, or if it was going to take an exchange of gunfire to force an audience – which, obviously, he would come out on the short end of. So he tersely ordered them to come up windward of the _Imperator_ and cross her bow without permission, causing her to fall to leeside and luff. This was considered the height of maritime bad behavior, usually a prelude to an attack, and a Navy captain could himself be soundly punished for "taking the wind" of a commodore or admiral. But it should at least let Killian see who it was. After that. . .

The _Jewel,_ lighter and faster than the man-of-war, maneuvered swiftly into place as Liam waved with all his might, half-wondering if he was about to be shot where he stood. But the sight caused a flurry on the _Imperator's_ deck, and after a very tense few minutes, the ship dipped its topsail, allowing them to come up abreast. The two sets of sailors, merchant and Navy on the one hand and Navy-turned-pirate on the other, stared at each other with vast suspicion, but didn't rush straightaway for the cannons. Heart in his throat, Liam raised his voice. "KILLIAN!"

After the most nerve-wracking moment of his life, his little brother stepped into sight by the gunwale. He bore only a passing resemblance to the man who had arrived at Eleuthera to retrieve Liam from Farquhar Buzzard, as if the last fortnight had aged him twice his years. He was wearing all black, his missing left hand replaced with the lethal gleam of a steel hook, and his shadowed blue eyes were two empty chasms in his face. He looked down at Liam with neither interest nor disinterest. "There's no man by that name on this ship."

"Killian. Please." Liam held out both hands. "I know you're angry at me. I know I failed you, I lied to you. I was wrong, and I can't forgive myself for what I did to you. But it's not too late. Let me come aboard, and we can talk. Please."

His crew – his _former_ crew – were appearing at the railing alongside their new captain, looking down at Liam on the frigate. It was impossible to tell what they thought of his opportune arrival, his merchant getup, any of it – they weren't shooting and they didn't look outraged, but nor did they appear inclined to shout friendly greetings, renounce their current pillaging and ransacking ways, and meekly accept whatever pitiful pardon the Navy was handing out. They had changed, he could tell that at once. They weren't interested in going back. That first deep draught from the poisoned well was an intoxicating one beyond a doubt.

"I don't want to talk." Killian looked as if he was barely holding it together. "There's nothing you can do. You _lied to me,_ Liam! You lied! All this time, all these years! Now, when there's no other bloody choice, you're sorry for it?"

"Killian, I – "

" _My name is Hook!"_

Liam flinched as if he'd been slapped. He threw a glance over his shoulder at the cabin door – he absolutely did not for the life of him want Regina walking into the middle of this. "Killian," he repeated firmly. "Ten minutes. Let me come aboard. That's all I ask."

His brother still looked inclined to refuse him, or as if he wanted to, but couldn't find the heart. He remained motionless a moment longer, then jerked his head. "Fine. Ten minutes."

A plank was maneuvered between the two ships, as Liam did not want to try swinging over on a rope with his shoulder in such unreliable shape, and he crossed carefully, landing on the deck with a thunk and feeling both as if he had come home after years away, and there were squatters living in the place who had no intention of clearing out. He felt more alienated than ever with their eyes on him, wondering how he had gotten here in such fine fettle, when he was supposedly under a death sentence back on Antigua. Killian might not have shared all the details of his betrayal, but there must have been a reason why they hadn't bothered to rescue him before burning out of there on their reckless trail of destruction. A month ago, he had been their captain, their respected and revered leader, and now they merely stepped aside without a word, watching him follow Killian into the cabin. It was plain enough who they now considered to be in charge of this vessel, and it assuredly was not him. He might have expected it, and to some degree, he had, but it felt like only the first lash of a whip that still had far worse to deal.

Once the door was closed, Liam still maintained a cautious distance, much as he wanted to take Killian in his arms and hide him from the world. It had worked when they were boys, when he was the only thing Killian needed to make it better, but he thought Killian might hit him, or otherwise snap like a wounded animal, if he tried it now. They just stood there, staring at each other, until he finally couldn't stand it. "Can I have a look at your arm?"

Killian instinctively clutched it to his chest, shoulders crunched. "It's fine."

"Bloody hell, it's not, and you know it. Christ, Killian. What happened? In Boston, did you. . . did you find them?"

"How did you know I was here?" Killian kept looking back at him with those animal eyes. "Who told you to follow me? How did you get away from Antigua?"

"I – I'm looking for you because I'm worried sick about you, that's why! We tracked you to Jamaica, then found the wreckage of the _Blackbird_ , and one of the survivors managed to say that Jennings had captured the women and was likely heading here before he died. I thought you. . . you might decide to follow them."

"Who? Who's _we?"_

Liam gritted his teeth, resolved not to lie, but also wanting to orchestrate this carefully, as too much truth too fast would set Killian off like a powder keg. "Regina Mills. She's helping me. She got me out of jail back on Antigua, and managed to get hold of the one frigate you didn't sink. We're trying to find you – as we did – before someone else does."

"Regina _Mills?"_ Killian's lip curled, in infinite disgust. "Likely just so she could have a shot at Captain Swan herself, eh? Well, if that's the case, she can pack up and go back to her cathouse. She has what she wants. Emma's dead. We were too late. Henry bloody fucking Jennings murdered her, after he took my hand and destroyed our lives on Gold's orders. That's what he said. That he'd done me a favor. He took out some of her bloody _hair_ and showed me! And I was face to face with him, and I couldn't even shoot him! I couldn't do anything! I've destroyed everything and killed everyone and it doesn't even matter! It doesn't matter a single damn! I don't care anymore! I just want it to be over! I wish I was just bloody smart enough to lie down and go to sleep and never, never wake up!"

Liam felt, again, as if he had been physically hit, tears stinging his eyes at the force of the unleashed maelstrom that seemed to be devouring all the light and air and goodness and joy – what pitifully little appeared to remain of it – in the world. Not caring if Killian buried his hook in his chest, he took two steps across the cabin and pulled his brother into his arms, holding him tightly as Killian instinctively kept fighting, trying to push him back and get away, but didn't have the strength to do that either. All the wild, snapping rage drained out of him like a sail cut loose from the wind, going slack and empty, and he swayed and half collapsed against Liam, clutching the fabric of his shirt with his good hand, gulping and choking in awful, barking sounds that barely sounded human. His hook slid and snagged in Liam's coat, trying uselessly to get the same purchase, but couldn't. He simply couldn't.

Liam steered him to the bed, sat him down, and managed to get the hook unclicked from the makeshift brace that had been fashioned for him – that gave him a brief, terrible spark of hope that at least someone might have been there for Killian at the worst hour of his life, and doubled his guilt for it not being him. He kept holding him as hard as he could, murmuring old sea shanties that came to mind, until Killian's shaking finally began to slow. He leaned against Liam, completely shattered, still holding onto a fistful of his shirt, until his head sank into his lap. He just lay there, unmoving, as Liam quietly stroked his hair, not daring to utter a word. At last, very softly, he said, "I'm so sorry, Killian. I'm so sorry."

Killian sniffled, sounding just like the little boy who had learned quickly to keep a stiff upper lip and a proud look around the older men, but would break down later, in private, in the late and the dark. He still didn't move, shuddering a deep and ragged sigh. It was just as long until he finally said, voice muffled into Liam's leg, "I failed her. I failed her."

"I'm sorry." Much as he might have his own opinions on Emma Swan and what sort of influence she had been on Killian, this was not the time to speak ill of the dead, or to do anything but try to soothe and coax him into a more settled frame of mind. "It's not your fault. You did everything you could for her, I'm sure. It was Jennings. He did it. Not you."

"And I couldn't – I couldn't even kill him for it!" Killian rolled over, looking up at Liam with that anguished expression, hair tousled everywhere and eyes raw and imploring. "Help me. Help me do that. Help me hunt him down and make sure there are no mistakes this time. He deserves to burn. I can't let him walk away." His hand tightened convulsively on Liam's shirt again. "Help me, Li. It can be like it was, the two of us sailing together. Stay with me. Please."

"I'll stay if you need me to," Liam said carefully. "But you know I can't agree to turn pirate."

"Why not?" Killian sat up, facing him. "If you already saw to it that Captain Silver and his entire crew drowned, it's not as if you can't do what it takes! If you did it because of me, you did it to save me, I can understand that, I swear. I'm angry, I was angry, I still am – I don't know why you lied to me, I don't know – but I know you love me, I know it. Stay. Please stay."

Liam opened and shut his mouth. He could hear how young and desperate Killian sounded, pleading with him not to leave, the one thing he had always been terrified of Liam doing, just as their father had. "Listen to me," he said quietly, urgently. "Yes, I lied to you, and it was the biggest mistake I ever made. I should have trusted you, I should have, I know – but it was a terrible choice, and I didn't want you to grow up burdened by the knowledge of what it had cost to free us and buy your future. When you were old enough, I wanted to tell you – but I was afraid. That's my weakness, and I'm sorry."

"So. See." Killian fumbled for his hand, clutching hold. "You understand where I was coming from. Now you don't have to live with that weight anymore. You can be a pirate. The crew would welcome you back, I'm sure. We'll have adventures. Just like we always dreamed of."

"Killian – " Liam braced himself. "You're not hearing what I'm saying. I want to make amends for what I've done. Not just plunge further into the darkness with it, using it as an excuse for not trying at all anymore. You have to turn away from this. It can't lead you to any good end. Give up the pirate, find the man again, and we can be safe. We'll start over, aye – but the _right_ way, this time. Not as criminals and outlaws who will be hanged the instant we're caught."

Killian went still. His hand remained holding Liam's, but less tightly. Then all at once, he pulled it back. "The _right_ way? You actually think we're remotely capable of doing that?"

"Aye, I do. And we have to. There's nothing and no reason for you to continue being Hook. You're endangering everyone – the crew, yourself, anyone you meet. If Emma _is_ dead, all the fire and brimstone in the world won't bring her back. You have to let her go."

Killian flinched. "Always knowing what to do," he said after a moment, in a much cooler tone. "Always knowing what's best for both of us. Always so _good._ You can't stop either, can you?"

"Killian, I – "

"How did you get here?" Killian stared at him, eyes cold and blue as two winter stars. "How did you and Regina just manage to steal a ship and sail out of Antigua without anyone lifting a finger to stop you? Who sent you? You'd better tell me. You'd better tell me right now."

Liam was desperately eager not to lie, to avoid repeating the mistakes of last time, yet it was looking, horribly and ironically, as if the truth might be the one thing to do them in. "Killian. . . look, it's complicated, please don't jump to conclusions. I. . . Gold sent me, all right? If I agreed to come find you, he promised to hang August Booth in your place. But I'm not taking you back there, I'm not going to let him get within sniffing distance again, we'll run away and – "

Killian remained absolutely motionless. Then, suddenly and violently, he pushed himself backward and rocked to his feet. "I surely didn't hear you right. You said that you came out here to find me after making a bargain with _Gold._ To let August Booth die in my place. Just like you did with Plouton and the _Ben Gunn?_ But surely you wouldn't?"

"Killian, I said it was complicated, that I'm not taking you back there – "

" _You did the exact same thing again?"_ Killian's eyes were slits. "And you have the _gall_ to sit there and tell me that you can't turn pirate, that I have to stop, that there's no future for us if I keep on being me? Because that's the way it is with us, isn't it? I make mistakes, and you chastise me for them? Because you just pretend your own don't exist? You filthy _coward."_

Liam jerked to his feet. "Killian. Killian, stop it. I know you're not thinking clearly right now, I know you're upset, but don't – "

" _But don't."_ The mockery in Killian's voice was utterly savage. Liam reached for him again, but he batted off his brother's hand. "That's just you. Raising the bar so high that all I can do is fail! And if you're remotely delusional enough to think that I'd actually _come_ with you to do what _Gold_ wants after all this, there's even less hope than I thought! Or perhaps – "

"Stop it! Just stop it! I had to get us out of there! I had to do whatever it took to find you before some frothing dog of his caught you first and tore you limb from limb! You said you understood me and the choices I made with the _Ben Gunn,_ if I did it because I loved you! And I do, Killian! I love you more than anything or anyone anywhere, and I'm still trying to save you! If you just – "

"Trying to save me." It was clear that Killian had never heard anything he considered more appallingly ironic. "That's a funny word for it."

"Yes! Yes, I am! I'm not letting you die as a pirate, I'll die first, I can't – "

"So you'll sell me back into slavery?" Killian's voice rose violently, almost to a roar. It was then that Liam lost all trace of his little brother's familiar face in the white, frozen mask of Captain Hook that was staring at him like an unrested ghost, exorcised in violence and madness from the tomb. "Lie to me again? Make more bargains with the worst men alive to let everyone else die in my place, then deny you ever did? Where does it stop, Liam? Where does it fucking stop?"

"If you come with me now, it can, I swear, it can, far away from this, from them – "

"And you think _I_ don't know how the world works." Hook spun on his heel, slashing a ribbon down the wall. "We'll never be free of them. We'll never be able to go somewhere far enough that they won't follow. Maybe you want to run. Maybe that's your idea of the best course of action, if you can't face it. I'm going to fight. I'm going to kill them all. I love you. I always will. But if you try to stop me, I'm going to have to fight you too."

Liam held up both hands, heart pounding. "Killian, I said – "

"And _I_ said my name is Hook. My ship. My rules." The captain gazed back at him without a trace of familiarity or warmth, as if he was a captive they had just hauled ignominiously aboard in a fishing net. "Call me that, or leave. One way or the other."

"H. . . Hook." It choked and scraped in his throat, raw and burning, the one word the utter and absolute admission of his failure. "Please don't do this. Please don't do this to me."

Hook cocked a bitterly sardonic eyebrow, returning to the bed to retrieve his namesake appendage and clicking it back into position. "I set the terms," he said. "They're the same as they were earlier. Either join me as a pirate, fight at my side, help me destroy the evil men who have wronged us, or go. Those are your choices. There isn't a third."

Liam was utterly floored. He could not in any sort of good conscience agree to endorse this violent, brutal, self-destructive, vengeance-fueled spiral, could not pretend he wanted to participate in it even for the sake of staying close to his brother, would not act as if Captain Hook was the life he had dreamed of for young Lieutenant Killian Jones, or represented the best of his brother's potential. But either he had to ignore that, downright destroy and disqualify everything he had ever fought and sacrificed for, or do the other, equally unforgivable thing: abandon Killian. Walk out, say that he was not enough, and decide that, just as Brennan Jones had, his life would be better elsewhere, without him. It was the point of no return, either way. It was the end.

"Killian." He refused to back down from it, despite the searing look the captain gave him. "I'm sorry. I love you too. Always and forever. But I can't help you do this to yourself. As soon as you want to change your mind, as soon as you come up for air, I will be there for you, and I will love you not one bit less than I did before. But this is your path. This is your darkness. I can't follow you in there, and I'm not going to do it. You've always asked me to trust you before. To let you make your own decisions. If there's nothing else we've learned from this, it is that choices, particularly dark ones, have terrible consequences. Very well. This is your decision, your choice, and your consequences. I wish you joy of them."

Hook remained motionless, turned away from him, the air visible in small shimmers around him, both of them counting breaths, counting heartbeats. The silence in the cabin was vast and bottomless, growing larger, devouring. Impossible.

"So be it," the pirate said at last, lifting his head. "You should go."

Liam took a step, then stopped, overcome. "Please don't make me leave like – "

"Go." Hook turned on his heel. "We don't have anything else to say to each other. I appreciate your concern, truly. But I can handle myself from here on out. I'll sink anyone Gold sends at me, and you'd be wise not to interfere. Go 'start over,' if that's what you're interested in. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But by now, I imagine you're well used to the feeling."

"Killian – "

"Goodbye, Liam." His voice was almost soft. Almost gentle. "Goodbye, brother."

Liam remained standing only by accident, because it felt as if the hand of God had reached from heaven and snapped his spine in half. He felt that same slow, dreamy numbness that must have come over Killian upon hearing that Emma was dead, the realization that the world you had always known was over and nothing really mattered anymore, that it was all melancholy players and an empty stage. _Sound and fury, signifying nothing._

He started to walk.

He emerged onto the deck.

 _Don't look back. Don't look back._

The _Jewel_ and the _Imperator –_ no, it wasn't, he had to remember now, it was the _Jolie Rouge,_ Hook, Hook and the _Jolie Rouge –_ were still uneasily held together by the plank bridge, and he climbed onto it. Walked across, and felt it cut loose behind him. At once, the sails that had been reefed were allowed to fly again, and the pirate vessel began to move, an impressive fortress in the lengthening shadows. Liam stood there, and watched his entire life glide away from him, deeper into the sunset seas. He too had never more thoroughly wanted to simply cease to be.

And yet. As utterly dark and grim as this looked, as wretched, as raw, this did not mean that he was going to go crawl into a hole somewhere, give up and pack it in. The battle for his brother's soul was only starting, not ending, and Liam had never faced such daunting odds before – but that made no difference. And something had been nagging at him throughout the entire conversation: Killian saying that Emma was dead, but never making any mention of seeing her body or the circumstances of her death or any other details. Just that Jennings had said he'd killed her, and shown a convenient lock of blonde hair. And if Jennings, armed with August Booth's insider gossip, knew exactly how much of a weak spot Emma was for Killian despite both of their furious protestations, he would also have known exactly, as a hunter and a predator _par excellence_ , just how to use it to hurt him. To shut him down and chase him off, destroying his chances of saving her without a shot fired. Easy. So very, very easy.

Not that this meant anything definite. Jennings was certainly enough of a monster that he very well might have casually offed Emma, just because he could. But that didn't fit with his methods: he was vicious, but he was also calculating, just like his new master, Lord Robert Gold. Emma was more important and more useful alive – far more so, in fact, and Jennings knew it. For him to abruptly panic and kill her made absolutely no bloody fucking sense at all.

The more Liam turned it over in his head, the more convinced he was. Something simply did not add up, and of course Killian, already weakened and devastated by heartbreak and rage, wouldn't have been able to see it. That required a remove from the situation he did not possess, and for which he could not be blamed. But if there was a way, there was still a chance –

So, then. Liam was starting to see it, his new mission. It was quite simple, really. Only two parts. Before Killian was lost entirely and forever.

Kill Henry Jennings.

Find Emma Swan.

No matter what.

No matter how.


	20. XX

**-XX-**

It was now close to an hour since they had scarpered out of Boston, down the coast to where the _Walrus_ was anchored, and lit out for the safety of open water, to all appearances a daring escape that had been executed like clockwork. And it would even be true, if not for the fact that it was less than ten minutes since they had been fired on with great prejudice and they were having to fly every scrap of canvas and shed every extra weight in the name of sailing like hell to save their freshly liberated behinds. The problem was that HMS _Windsor_ was after them like ants on a picnic luncheon, which all intelligent people recognized as a bad thing, and Will Scarlet was, thank you very much, an intelligent person. He had already suggested chucking John Silver overboard to lighten their load, which he thought was proof of his superior intellectual capacity. Or that horrible smug spectacled git, the clerk, Dufresne. He was the bloody worst.

Nobody, however, had been tossed into the water yet (not even Billy, who had a knack for it) and they were instead playing a very dangerous game of chicken with the _Windsor_ among the small islands, shallow channels, and rocky spits of Massachusetts Bay. It was a masterly display of pilotage from Flint, who had taken the helm himself, slicing them in and out of the wind as the deck kept up a constant low-level shuddering beneath their feet, prone to switching tilts, directions, and general trustworthiness at any given moment. The Navy ship appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again, trying another shot and missing – but not by very much. It could be that its captain had to make a good show of trying to recapture the escapees, and would shortly give up and go away, or he was yet another of the confoundedly honest men who actually was devoted to his duty and would carry it out at all costs. Either way, Will did not particularly care for the bugger. _David Nolan, was that his name, they said? Sounds like a right twit._

"So much for not interfering with our mission," Flint growled, in one such lull between bombardments. "I told Bellamy we couldn't bloody trust them, so what does he do? Strolls the fuck up to his old chum and fucks us anyway by letting him know we're there?"

"Hey," Will panted. "Bellamy's doin' us a big favor distracting Jennings. Well, sort of. Not his fault everyone in the Navy is the damn worst."

Flint gave him a black look, but couldn't exactly argue. It was true that without their remaining cohort's contribution, this would have been far harder. As far as Will was able to reconstruct, there had been some kind of confrontation between Bellamy, Hook, and Jennings at a tavern, Jennings claimed that Emma was dead, Hook simply shut down and cut town, and Bellamy and Flint had to do quite a lot of improvisation as a result. Bellamy baited Jennings into a sea battle, Flint and friends snuck in the rear, found Will, Merida, Macintosh, and the other _Blackbird_ survivors detained in a noisome local penitentiary, and broke them summarily out of it. They had not, however, been able to locate Miranda or Emma, and violent interrogation of the jail guards had not proved helpful. Finally, someone said that they thought Miranda had been packed back aboard Jennings' ship, which would have been much more useful to know _before_ they sent Bellamy to take him on a nice vacation, and they had run like hell to the _Walrus_ and set out breathing fire to catch the bastard up. That was, in sum, the current state of things. Complicated further, as if they needed to be, by the _Windsor_ getting wind of the commotion and trying to shoot the shit out of them. All in all, it was not one of anyone's better evenings.

Will had to keep his mind on the task, because he did not want to let it wander into any dangerous places. Flint's rage, fear, and barely veiled desperation to find Miranda was as tangible as a bleeding heart wound, and since the last thing they had heard of Emma was that Jennings had killed her, there was no way to know if they were already too late for her, or both of them. Will didn't _think_ he had, not that Jennings wasn't exactly bloody awful enough to do it – but still. He didn't want to consider the idea of Emma actually being dead. It was probably just some arse's trick, especially given the arse pulling it. Maybe both the women were aboard the _Bathsheba,_ and they'd be catching them up and saving them before the night was out, while keel-hauling Jennings a few go-rounds. Yeah. That was it. Never hurt to think optimistically.

They were now on the far side of one of the larger islands, having managed to lose the _Windsor_ momentarily, but didn't dare break from cover too soon, in case it caught their attention. Flint's face was chalk white, lips pulled back in a frozen snarl, as if it was taking all his self-control not to go headlong after the Navy vessel and blow it out of the water for the distractions and delays it was causing them. Only the knowledge that that would take more time, time they could not make up, and that Jennings had Miranda was stopping him. _Next time, we should review our brilliant strategies a little more carefully, eh?_ It was exquisite irony that the one time anyone actually wanted Jennings nearby, they had instead had Bellamy drag him God alone knew where.

At last, when five minutes had passed, Flint decided to hell with it, hauled them back around, and pointed them on a direct downwind dead run. The _Walrus_ almost flew over the dark water, beams creaking, ropes keening, and sails straining. They were lucky it was a stiff breeze from a favorable direction, but Flint was still pushing it to the limits, the shrouds and stays snapping and sawing in the deadeyes so violently that Will thought they were going to scatter like a handful of buttons bursting from a broken thread. The only clue they had for Bellamy's likely choice of battleground was his well-known affiliation with Cape Cod – it would be wise to lure Jennings into a scuffle on his familiar home turf, where he knew the tricks and the waters and the territory. That, therefore, was where they were making, and if not. . .

They were well out in the Atlantic, when they spotted the eerie white luminescence of sails against the night sky. It was coming at them quickly, forming into the shape of a disastrously well-known ship, and Will's stomach turned over. "HEY!" he yelled. "JENNINGS ON STARBOARD!"

Flint's eyes went further molten, angling them onto the sharpest intercept course the wind would allow. They couldn't open fire if the women were aboard, putting them at a steep disadvantage to start the confrontation, but the _Bathsheba_ was most certainly damaged and limping, running at quite a bit less speed than usual, and Will hoped savagely that Bellamy had good and played target practice with it. It was fortunate that he was so merciful and high-minded, as another pirate might have sunk the _Bathsheba_ outright and thus accidentally murdered Miranda and Emma anyway. But "merciful" did not in the least encompass what Flint was going to do to him, the instant he got in range – just a few more minutes, just a few –

Jennings was trying to hew into line far enough to avoid presenting a broad target, as even he could not be outstandingly eager for a second scrum in his current state of weakness. But then he realized who they were, and that changed everything. As the _Walrus_ rode up, close enough that a reasonably athletic man could have taken a running jump from one deck to another, both sets of pirates scrambled to the railings with muskets primed and ready to fire, and Jennings himself, tangled pale hair falling in his face and usual sleek manner noticeably dented and disheveled, dragged a struggling female shape into the lantern light. "That you, Flint?" he shouted. "I've got your cunt here! How many pieces do you want her back in?"

Flint had a heavy stagecoach pistol braced on his arm and ready to fire, but at the sight, the breath seemed to halt in his chest. Jennings had Miranda by the hair, twisting his own gun into her chin and thrusting her forward. Blood was running down her face from a gash on her temple, and one eye was already blackening and bruising – she had evidently fought Jennings as hard as she could, and paid the price for it. At the sight of them, she jerked and snapped still harder. "Shoot the bastard, James!" she screamed. "Just fucking shoot him!"

For once, Captain Flint did not do exactly that in the face of an enemy. Jennings was using Miranda as a shield – he couldn't get off a shot from this range, with the to-say-the-least unreliable accuracy of smoothbore muskets, without seriously risking hitting her. Seeing his hesitation, Jennings bared his teeth, nodding at the _Walrus'_ bristling row of armament. "One single click from any of you, she dies. Tell your men to stand down. Now."

Flint remained frozen, utterly and horridly transfixed, until he jerked his head. His voice was a terrible rasp. "Lower your guns."

There were a few aghast looks, but they did as ordered, as Miranda made a muffled noise of protest. She twisted again, trying to stamp on Jennings' foot, but he wrenched her arm behind her back, bending her almost in half. "I imagine you'll be feeling in a more agreeable mood soon, my lady. You made me an offer, and I do intend to take it up. Perhaps you – " he shot another gloating look at Flint – "want to watch? From the rumors I've heard, I think that may rather be your sort of thing. First, though. Terms. You'll return to Boston with me and hand yourself into the authorities, to stand trial and conviction for high seas piracy spanning a long and most infamous career. Lord Robert Gold will want to attend your hanging in person, thus we have to allow for a voyage from Antigua, so that gives you – oh, a month to set your affairs in order? Reconsider your poor choices? Incriminate anyone else you know of? You'd be well advised to do so. The bargain we offered to your associate, 'Captain' Hook, still stands. Give us information on how to take down Nassau, and walk away a free man. More or less."

"Fuck you," Flint said. "Fuck Lord Robert Gold. Fuck you, again. Fuck Antigua. Fuck you, a third time. Fuck Boston. Fuck you all."

"Oh?" Jennings' eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't fancy her life so much as that? I suppose you won't mind if I put your word to the test, then?"

His finger tightened on the trigger, his arm locked around Miranda's throat and the gun pressed point-blank into her head, there was nothing anyone could do to stop it, she was going to die in front of their eyes and the world would never stand upright again – when all at once, there was a streak of fire, a hiss and a boom, and a shot scythed across the _Bathsheba's_ deck, taking out a chunk of the foresail. Before Will could wonder who had had the idiot temerity to disobey Flint and fire anyway, he realized in another instant that it hadn't come from them. While they were distracted with chasing down Jennings, the _Windsor_ had kept on coming, quiet and persistent, deciding not to shoot until they were as close as possible and thus not alerting them to their presence. Now the Royal Navy warship was less than five hundred yards behind them, and must have a very good gunner indeed on the bow chasers to score that kind of direct hit. There might be a more unlikely savior, but not many.

At any rate, it was the proverbial straw on the camel's back. Jennings whirled to look for the source, Miranda shoved him away from her ferociously, and Flint cocked the pistol, raised it, braced it, and fired, all in one elegant, violent, perfectly practiced movement. The shot hit Jennings in the left shoulder – Flint had been aiming for his heart, but he ducked at the last instant, turning it from a fatal wound into a serious one. Still, the bastard went down hard, his lunge crumbling into a stumble, and a spray of blood burst red on the boards. He rolled in agony, clutching it and swearing, and Flint whirled on the first person he saw – who happened, naturally, to be Will. "GET HER!" he roared. "GET HER NOW!"

Will, for once, decided to do exactly as the bugger said. He seized a rope, swung out over the dark ocean as another thunderous fusillade of booms sounded from the _Windsor's_ forward battery, and came in for a not-at-all-dignified landing on the _Bathsheba_ as Miranda saw him coming, sprinted over, and grabbed hold. "Emma's not here!" she yelled. "Go! _Go!"_

It was hard to work up the proper amount of reverse momentum with two of them, one a woman in long skirts, trying to run in the middle of a full-on artillery blazon, and Will was convinced they would both be blown to kingdom come by one of the _Windsor's_ inbound nine-pounders. Jennings was still down, but they couldn't stop to finish him off – besides, neither of them had a weapon. Will pushed off as hard as he could, Miranda's arms wrapped like a vise around his torso, and they flew back out over the water, just clipping the railing of the _Walrus_ and somersaulting with a crash onto the deck. He took the blow, his wind driven out of him as if with a sledgehammer, and just lay there with his mouth wide open, which didn't do him the rum bit of good. Miranda sprawled on top of him, equally stunned, but she managed to recover first, pushing herself upright. The next instant Flint was there, lifting her off her feet and crushing her into his chest, and she hung onto him for dear life. Nobody was rushing to desperately embrace _Will_ and bathe him in grateful tears, which was annoying. What did a bloke have to do to get a bit of recognition around here? That had been pretty damn heroic, he said so himself.

Yet there was no time for any long-winded or emotional reunions. The instant Flint had reassured himself that Miranda was alive, solid, and more or less unhurt, he kissed her forehead and ran straight back to the helm, trying to get them out of the way and let the _Windsor_ have a clear shot at Jennings. The crew of the _Bathsheba_ was trying to do the same thing, someone dragging the wounded captain into the cabin and someone else veering the damaged vessel out of the path of the next salvo. Obviously, the Navy ship could not pursue them both, and since the _Bathsheba_ was clearly the weaker target, it went for them. Whoever could have guessed that they would end up deeply grateful for the wankers' presence after all? Funny damn world.

Will was all for them chasing down Jennings and hauling him back to Boston in disgrace, as he could think of nothing and no one more deserving of a brisk slap up both sides of the head and then twice on the arse. However, he had less than no faith that it would end in any measurable consequences – nobody would dare to hang, or even imprison, Lord Robert Gold's personal privateer. Jennings was untouchable by English law, a-bloody-las, and there was no justice to be had from that sector, naturally. But at least he might suffer from his gunshot wound, have a few pointed questions asked of his activities and finances, and stay out of interfering with things for a few weeks, which was the best they could ask for. His reckoning was coming, and it would be quite spectacular when it did. When you made mortal enemies of nearly every major pirate lord in the Americas, that tended to happen. _Just you bloody wait._

With the _Windsor_ off their tail and the wind still hard astern, they began to stretch their lead, galloping into the Atlantic. Will, having somewhat recovered his wits, made his way over to Miranda. "You said Emma wasn't on the _Bathsheba_. Where the hell is she? If Jennings – "

"No." Miranda was weighing what to tell him, he could see that much. "She escaped. I told her that if she could find Sam Bellamy, she would – "

"Sam Bellamy? He was with Flint earlier, so I heard. Him and our – our friend, Hook. But it went, well, sideways. We sent Bellamy to get Jennings out of the city, only that bloody backfired, because we didn't know you were on his ship. As for Hook – "

"So he came to find her after all," Miranda said, without it sounding much like a question. "That rather changes things."

Will was vastly tempted to press for details, as he had strong suspicions about just what had gone on between Emma and the man formerly known as Killian Jones during her stint in the Navy's custody, but Miranda was giving him the sort of look that women gave you when they weren't going to tell you anything, and you would have to shut your mouth and accept the fact that you were an idiot. Instead, he cocked his head at her injuries. "Jennings didn't. . .? I mean, well, you look a bit worse for wear, and I was just wondering if. . ."

"I'll be all right." Miranda smiled wanly. "He tried to force me to tell him where Emma had gone, and I wouldn't. That rather vexed him. So he paid a visit to a brothel or some similar establishment, and stole the hair from some poor girl to make it look as if he had not, in fact, allowed such a valuable captive to slip out under his nose. It was certainly Bellamy that Jennings was fighting, so. . . we have to trust that Emma made it to Cape Cod, and he found her."

"But why would Emma take the risk of runnin' on her own, without you? I know she wouldn't leave you behind. That kind of gamble, even if no one could blame her for wantin' away from Jennings, I don't understand why – "

Miranda once more gave him the look, just as Flint came up behind them, clearly with the intention of taking her into the cabin, shutting the door, and not seeing anyone else for the rest of the night. She nodded at him, then turned back to Will. "Thank you," she said, composed and gracious. "You were very brave back there. I won't forget it."

"Ah." Will shuffled his feet, abashed. "You're welcome, m'lady."

It probably would have physically killed Flint to thank him aloud as well, but he gave him a look as if considering him somewhat more use than something squashable you could step on, which was about all you could hope for, from him. They went inside, and Will considered trying to eavesdrop, in case she let slip to Flint whatever bit of information she was clearly withholding from him, but that didn't seem quite on. They deserved some privacy after that whole ordeal, and he was left to ruminate on what kind of exceptional circumstance could possibly motivate Emma to risk such a dangerous break for it, while leaving Miranda behind. If it was merely a question of which one of them could make it to safety and alert someone to their predicament, well, Emma _was_ more likely, and the women could not possibly have known that the entire cavalry was riding into town to rescue them. They would think they were completely left to fend for themselves, but if Emma was trying to get help, it would have been far simpler to just cross town to the _Windsor_. Of course, it would have been bloody stupid for a pirate captain to walk up to the Navy, especially one who had already burned her bridges in such spectacular fashion, and wagering on a fellow pirate to help them was much more sensible. But still. Why only Emma? Had Miranda told her to go, and stayed behind herself? What the devil would be important enough to pull such a hair-raising maneuver?

Much as Will chewed it through, he couldn't come up with an answer, and went below to the crew's quarters, where he was allowed to take a spare hammock and settle down for the night. Merida and Macintosh were just across the way, mostly hidden from view by the crossbeam, and it wasn't long until Will saw one of the hammocks swing, heard a creak of shifting ropes, noted two pairs of feet where there was usually one, and waited for the soft, furtive noises that shortly followed. He was not at all surprised that they were engaging in the time-honored ritual of a man and woman who had pretended to dislike each other this long and had just survived something that should have killed them – ipsum ergo, the good old "I'm glad you're not dead and I may actually like you, but don't tell anyone" clandestine fuck. Aye, well, it was more than bloody time, good for them. Though if Mac thought Will would not absolutely tease him black and blue about this, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.

The night drifted on. Will must have slept at some point, because he woke early, with the ship absolutely shrouded in thick, impenetrable North Atlantic fog. Having very bad memories of Jennings being able to creep up on the _Blackbird_ and take them off guard in the last fog – he didn't _think_ it would be him this time, but there were plenty of other options – he decided to risk at least checking if Flint was aware of this. As well, he thought – now that they were such mates and all – he might tip Flint off on a few of the conversations he had heard whispered last night. He still didn't like the man terribly much, but Flint _had_ saved his life, at considerable personal risk, by breaking him and the others out of jail, and, well, that was the thing about him. You didn't like him and you didn't trust him and you knew he was an unscrupulous weasel who'd sell you down the river the instant it suited him, but you still somehow wanted to do what he said. Wanted to fall into the lure of his cleverness and charisma, wanted to make him proud, wanted to fight for him. Which was fine, so far as it went. It was only when you forgot that half to three-quarters of it (on the low end) was a lie or a manipulation or a subtle trap that the trouble started.

At least Will was well aware of that, which was a start. And belowdecks last night, the _Walrus'_ crew had been discussing the fact that they had now spent the better part of a month sailing hither and yon in attempts either to pursue Flint's personal alliances (Jamaica) or to mend Flint's personal misfortunes (Boston) and with nothing more than the initial bribe stolen from the Spanish camp to show for it. Now they also had the infamous Mrs. Barlow on board, whom none of them really knew or trusted; her influence over Flint was subject to all sorts of dark and fanciful rumors, since he'd never given them any sort of truth to tide them over. They might not be ready to try another mutiny just yet, but sentiment was growing that they had once more bought his bill of goods, forgiven him for Gates and fallen under his spell again, only for him to go back to doing exactly as he had before. Billy Bones' reappearance had not done anything to quash such talk. He had restrained from openly claiming that Flint had tried to kill him, but nor had he shirked from hinting to the men that their lives were no safer under their fearless leader's stewardship than they had been before, and he had personal reason to think so. If Flint was going to shut them up again, they needed to take a good score, and fast.

Deciding that if he couldn't stomach doing this for Flint's sake directly, he could do it for Emma's and thus for Miranda's and thus for Flint's sake, Will crossed the deck to the cabin, rapped on the door, thought he heard an answer, and pushed it open. Stepped inside, and –

Immediately skidded to a halt, arms windmilling, certain that he had just shot to the top of Flint's "people to scurrilously murder because they annoy me" list. They were asleep, Flint's nose buried in the back of Miranda's neck and her loosened hair scattered over her shoulders, his arm tightly wrapped around her waist and the quilts tossed over their legs. They did not look in any sort of mood to be disturbed, nor was it liable to go well if Flint woke up and found Will standing here like the spooky bloke in the bushes who liked to watch women bathing in the river. Henceforth, the wise thing to do was to turn smartly about and exit the same way he had come, while making no noise and waiting for an hour or two just to be sure. This would have worked, too, if he had not stepped directly on a crooked board, which (just because it didn't like him, probably) emitted a piercing screech.

Flint's eyes flashed open, and he sat bolt upright, shirtless and swearing. His hand was halfway to his sword, which had been left with his belt on the shelf, by the time he spotted the interloper. "Scarlet. You have thirty seconds to explain what the fuck you're doing. Actually, no. Twenty."

"I'm sorry, I swear. I knocked and thought you answered. Was just goin' to warn you of the fog, and someone possibly creepin' up on us. Also, the crew's realizin' that they've spent quite a lot of time sailing around on your vendettas, and they'd really like to get paid now, thanks."

Flint remained giving him the deathest of death glares, as Miranda stirred and murmured. She rolled over and sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself; she seemed quite unfazed by waking to discover an uninvited guest in her boudoir. Her eye was still bruised and raw-looking, but Flint had clearly tidied up the blood and cuts, the sort of tenderness that he would exhibit to literally nobody else on earth. Will had a brief moment of thinking that Flint should just tell the crew that she wasn't some dread soul-stealing succubus or blood-drinking woods witch, that they didn't have to fear her supposed baneful feminine sway, that all the darkness and the demons came from him, and she was in fact the only good part of him that was left. But that would require him to demonstrate even a speck of honesty about his past and his motives, open him up to questions he wouldn't answer, and otherwise weaken him in a way he would not countenance. The only reason Flint sailed with a crew was because he couldn't do it by himself. Hard to have any trust, openness, or affection in that setup. So he merely kept them at arm's length, hating himself for needing them and hating them for being there.

"Fascinating," Flint said, in response to Will's earlier comment. "And they elected you their spokes-idiot, did they? Do they now expect me to conjure a suitable prize out of said mist, or haven't they yet decided that I also control the weather? Bones down there flapping his gums about what a threat I am to the good order aboard this vessel, no doubt?"

"He's. . . had a few things to say, yeah."

Flint kept regarding him flatly, reaching for his white blouson shirt and tugging it brusquely over his head. He then gave Will another, even more pointed look, which he interpreted as his cue to leave and complied accordingly. In a few minutes, Flint and Miranda emerged, Flint buckling on his swordbelt and looking more displeased to see that Will hadn't made up the fog (perhaps he just suspected everyone of playing as fast and loose with the truth as he did). He surveyed the grey world cursorily, the waiting faces of the crew, then said, "We make for Nassau, then back to the Spanish wrecks. Bellamy's going to be heading there as well, because we gave him the coordinates, and the two of us should hand the Spaniards their arses quite satisfactorily. That should shut up any grousing about paydays, and if he has retrieved Emma, all the better."

Will supposed this was a fairly sensible plan, and he wasn't going to open his fool mouth (even if this was a habit of his the rest of the time) and contradict Flint in front of everyone. A good first mate felt free to question and challenge and converse with his captain, but never in public, and he certainly did not fill the role for Flint, nor have any interest in it after what had become of his last sidekick. And despite the dangers and detours and distractions of the Boston rescue mission, they had come out of it more or less intact – possibly even ahead, having dealt a serious blow to Jennings and recruited a powerful ally, in the form of Sam Bellamy, for a second go at the sunken treasure. However, that still left the _Blackbird_ survivors with no captain and no ship, uneasily amalgamated into the _Walrus'_ contingent for the time being but not part of them, and Will wasn't sure he liked the thought of Hook out there, bouncing around like a loose cannon and causing maximum damage wherever he ended up. Unwillingly, he once more thought of the young lieutenant that he and Macintosh (which reminded him, he had to take the mickey out of him for shagging Merida last night) had held prisoner in the cave on Jamaica. When someone like that reached his breaking point, and kept on breaking, there was no telling what he might do.

Still. Nothing he could do about it. They were alive and free, which had not been at all a foregone conclusion, and that was no small thing. So he kept quiet, couldn't resist one glance back, and watched them pass, a phantom ship themselves, ghostly and silent, into the mist.

* * *

For the entirety of the voyage south, having no idea where he was going except for the fact that it wasn't far enough, Hook entertained the possibility of just continuing straight down the line, far south as south went, past the Caribbean and past the Spanish Main and all the way down to the legendary Cape Horn at the very tip of the southern continent, the greatest challenge known to mariners. He had read Captain Woodes Rogers' book, _A Cruising Voyage Round the World,_ in which Captain Rogers related the tale of how he had done this very thing, circumnavigating the Horn in search of an entry to the Pacific Ocean and a potential attack on a Manila treasure galleon. Along the way, his party had rescued the castaway Alexander Selkirk, a Scottish sailor who had lived all alone for four years on a tiny island and whose case had excited widespread public interest (including that of one Daniel Defoe, who was supposedly writing, of all the déclassé things, a _novel_ about it). Hook even knew Rogers, if casually; Rogers was a born-and-bred product of the Bristol shipping business circles, and they had crossed paths at a few Navy dinner parties. It was no secret, then, that the voyage which made him famous had also destroyed his life, leaving his brother dead (a loss he had never gotten over) and himself seriously wounded, as well as bankrupt after his crew sued him for withheld shares of the profits. At the moment, Hook could wish very much for the parallels not to strike him so ironically, but he supposed grimly that his brother was already dead (or as good as), he was already seriously wounded, and they didn't even have enough money for anyone to make it worthwhile suing him. What the fucking hell else did he have to lose?

The only thing arguing against this course of action, which would otherwise be vastly tempting, was that it would take him too far away from the Caribbean, and thus Gold and Jennings. Aye, he could go spend a few years in the Pacific, preying on the rich Chinese spice and silk trade and harassing the East India Company, and if he did not die on the Horn, would likely make a nice income for it. But the thought of leaving Gold and Jennings unpunished, of allowing them to continue on their merry way and do whatever they wanted to whomever they pleased, chafed like a burr. All the plunder in the world would be empty and pointless if he didn't kill them first. And after what he had done to Antigua, he had no chance of taking them that off guard again. Gold would write to London. Get new ships. Ones that sailed, this time, and could actually hunt pirates. Get new men. Start the war. And if so, Hook intended to be here, to fight.

He decided, then, and after much deliberation, to make for Nassau. He didn't want friends, but he might at least be served by making sure that everyone who had made the mistake of not taking Captain Hook seriously last time did not do so again. Besides, at least they would have more rum there, and he had nearly drunk their current store dry. Otherwise, between the throbbing stump and the turbulent, tormenting thoughts, he couldn't possibly sleep.

It was a fortnight on the return passage, the wind feeling inclined to be capricious; it was now early September and the autumn weather, while still fair, was sharpening. The sea lanes of the American colonies were fairly well traveled, so they had to stay far out to avoid any unpropitious encounters. But at last, on a dank, hot morning where the entire world was mist and steam and water, the sun slanting in pale, washed-out hues through the whiteness, they spotted New Providence ahead, and reefed their sails for approach. Moved into the mouth of the harbor, and –

It was then, gliding toward them as if not quite touching the water, an eerie optical illusion caused by the refraction of all the rain and humidity in the air, they saw a ship – a brigantine, similar enough to the _Blackbird_ to give him a momentary turn. This one, however, flew black sails instead of white, and a pirate banner he hadn't seen before – a death's head with two swords crossed beneath. Its gun ports were open, and its menace clearly conveyed, even if by Hook's first reckoning, it carried far fewer cannon than they did. Who the hell did they think they were, trying to challenge him on entry? He'd come in without a problem last time, when –

At any rate, the ship was now close enough that they'd either have to take hard evasive action, open fire, or consent to seeing who they were and what they wanted. He didn't suppose that blasting their way through the bastard would win many points for him in Nassau (unless it did, you never knew). As the other vessel veered in alongside, he resolved to try his best impression of Bellamy, the suave wit and handsome charm that had seemed to open any door in the world. He raised his voice. "Ho! The ship!"

After a moment, the other captain stepped to the railing. He was not particularly tall, but stocky and fierce, heavily muscled, with long golden-brown dreadlocks and a knife-bladed nose, mocking blue eyes and a gravelly voice. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Hook." He was getting rather tired of being greeted in this fashion. More fool them if they hadn't realized just yet how dangerous he could be. "Captain Hook. And you?"

There was a brief exchange of glances among some of the men, and to his great surprise, he spotted that tit, Jack Rackham – well, that was unfair to tits, they were lovely things and made men's lives much better, had a use and a purpose even beyond that, and Jack Rackham did not fit any of those criteria. Next to him, even worse, was Anne Bonny, she of the sunny temperament and personality like an angry badger that hadn't eaten for three days. And if they had mended their employment difficulties, either they had taken up with a new captain or this was their infamous old one, him of the _Ranger,_ in other words –

"Charles Vane." The man made an extremely sarcastic flourish. "You're sailing in here why?"

"I'm a pirate, you hairy cretin." Bellamy was not going to work in this situation, evidently, and he reached instead for Flint. _My bloody pirate angel on one shoulder and pirate devil on the other._ "What's it look like?"

"I've never seen you before. Nor your ship." Vane eyed it appraisingly, as if thinking how much better it would look either set afire, or with him in charge of it. "You think we just let fucking anybody waltz in? Piss off, or you'll wish you did."

Rackham cleared his throat. "Ah, Charles. I hate to interrupt what is clearly a very effective conversation, but I _can_ actually vouch for Mr. Hook's authenticity. He was here some weeks ago in the company of Captain Swan, back when you and I were. . . on a break, and as a matter of form, I investigated the possibility of joining his crew. He didn't want to take me on for fear of upsetting you, so you don't need to think he'll – "

"Shut up, Jack." Charles Vane did not even glance at his (erstwhile?) quartermaster, eyes remaining on Hook. "So you're the one half the whores wouldn't fucking shut up about for the next two days? And Captain Swan, that one's a bloody joke, Flint's little water girl, so – "

"Keep talking," Hook growled. "I'm fairly sure I can shoot you between the eyes from here."

"Charles," Rackham said anxiously. "He does have _quite_ a few guns. Please, can we try diplomacy? This doesn't need to be a bloodbath, you know."

"Flint's been gone fuck knows how long, might never be coming back. Let's hope, at least. In the meantime, someone has to take this place in hand. If it's going to be me, I make the rules. And if you're in with Swan and Flint, you're no fucking friend to me."

"Swan's dead." It still tore him up inside, brought him to his knees, but he managed to utter it more or less flatly. "I don't know where Flint is. I don't sail with either of them. If you've heard any disquieting rumors about Antigua or Jamaica, well, that was my work. The question is, can you afford to make me your enemy?"

"Swan's dead?" Most surprisingly, it was Anne Bonny who spoke. She didn't look any more pleased to see him than on their last acquaintance, when she'd jumped him in an alley and held a knife to his throat, but there was something strange in her eyes, almost frightened. She must be well aware of the difficulties and obstacles facing a female pirate, far less a female pirate captain, and to hear that the only one she knew of had fallen must be jarring. "Who killed her?"

"Henry Jennings. If I'm not much mistaken, you know him." Hook looked very coldly at Vane. "Something of your role model, isn't he? With the flagrant violence and cruelty?"

Vane shrugged. "It's a cruel world, I didn't make the fucking rules. What else were we supposed to do? Stay slaves?"

That briefly jolted Hook as well, despite himself. He did not like Vane at all and could not say that he ever expected to, but taking a longer look at the man's face, he could glimpse something in the eyes, in the bones, the way that only an ex-slave could recognize another. It left its mark on you, in you, in a way no words could express, no ordinary men could understand. It was different than recognizing his communality with Flint, when they were nearly the same person in their histories and their tragedies, had reacted in the same way to be driven into the same darkness, and to lash against the same oppressors. Hook and Vane were _not_ the same person, and had quite little to bind them together, or even to guard against, as the knowledge of Flint had warned him against closer approach. But they both knew what it was like to have their will taken from them, to be subjugated by a master and ground into the dust, and to have the knowledge that they would rather die, or pay any price, never to be yoked by it again. How far they were willing to go, and against who, might be quite different, but it was still there.

"Well," Hook said aloud. "Glad we bloody established that. Now get your little boat out of the way and let me into the harbor."

"Don't think I will." Vane bared his teeth. "Nothing in it for me. Not unless – "

"Do you want the coordinates for the Spanish wrecks?"

That, despite himself, caught Vane on the hop. "What?"

"You heard me. I've been to the Spanish wrecks. I know where they are. I've discovered they're a valuable bit of bargaining leverage. Let me into Nassau harbor, and they're yours."

"And how do I know that they're not just some bit of gibberish you've scribbled down, or some arrangement to lead me into a trap?"

"Suppose you don't." Hook shrugged. "But they're not. Of course, if you'd rather not have the opportunity to best Flint at his own game, collect unfathomable wealth, and otherwise pull off the heist of the century, you're welcome to sit here with your thumb up your arse, making a petty nuisance of yourself to passersby. It's pathetic, though, really."

Vane opened and shut his mouth, which was immensely gratifying. "Careful, cripple."

"Oh, you mean this?" Hook held up his left arm. "Even you would require some effort to kill someone with your bare hands, whereas all I have to do is swing this. That gives me the advantage. Tired of Rackham yet? I can demonstrate."

Vane turned on Rackham, who looked alarmed. "What? He didn't have that last time."

"I'm full of bloody surprises." Hook's lips peeled back in a likewise terrifying smile. "The other option, of course, is that I open fire here and now, and as well as not getting the treasure coordinates, you die, all your men die, and your ship is sunk. Thus the end of Charles Vane, incredibly stupidly. That seems, if you ask me, like the worst of all possible bargains, but perhaps I lack your wisdom. That, however, isn't quite the word I'd use. What do you say?"

He couldn't resist glancing at Anne Bonny as he spoke, since she had been so loudly derisive of him as a useless, playacting pretty boy with no knowledge or stomach for the realities of pirate life. He was even further gratified to see that she was not rushing to repeat this opinion to his face. The three of them exchanged looks, men on both sides shifted as if in prelude to reaching for their weapons, and at last Vane, sounding as if he would rather declare Flint his best friend than agree to this, spat, "Fucking fine, then. Give us the bearings, and the harbor is yours."

Hook made an even more sarcastic flourish, turned on his heel, and went into the cabin, where he rechecked the charts, triangulated the coordinates, dipped his quill, and scrawled them on a piece of paper. He heated wax over a candle, then stamped and sealed it with another of the rings he had taken to wearing, this one pewter and in the shape of a grinning skull. He emerged with it, tied it to a small cannonball, wound up, and threw it with all his might, as it soared over the water and Vane, disappointingly, managed to catch it. "My gracious and profound thanks. But this isn't over, you know. When we return to Nassau, if you've cheated us or given us false information, I don't care how many friends and whores you might have by then. You'll pay."

"Hopefully quite a lot. In Spanish money." Hook grinned dashingly, just because he knew it would be the most annoying. "Now get out of my way."

The _Ranger_ backed off and began to move, even as everyone aboard it continued to vigorously evil-eye him. He was at least getting used to this, and it pleased him to see how well he had been able to handle that. He was not impressed or cowed by anybody, regardless of reputation or position or station or anything else; throw a literal god at him, and by this point he would probably just shrug and look bored. He wasn't frightened of Vane, wasn't going to scrape and tiptoe around him, and look, here he was heading into Nassau and Vane could have all the fun he wanted with the Spanish _guardas costas_ and Flint, if he made it back, and likely Bellamy, and Jennings too because why the fuck not, and everyone else in the godforsaken world. Adding one more lunatic to the pot couldn't make any difference to the stew.

It briefly crossed Hook's mind that he could use this interlude to set himself up as the new top captain on Nassau, what with Flint _and_ Vane gone, but he wasn't interested in power or ruling or the endless, sniping intriguing and maneuvering that seemed to take up much of their time. He just wanted to sleep for about a week, preferably as non-sober as possible, and then start consolidating plans and action for how to go after Gold. Even that, however, sounded like too much. He just wanted to find somewhere dark and quiet. Wanted it to stop hurting.

They dropped anchor in the harbor, and went ashore. This was the first time his men had been allowed to experience the pleasures of Nassau as real pirates, not Navy sailors held on board for fear of blowing their ruse, and it was clear this was going to be quite popular, as well as quite illuminating. Hook told them to enjoy themselves, then went up the darkening street to the tavern he had visited with Emma last time, wondering if Arabella the whore was going to accost him again the instant he walked in unaccompanied. He considered buying an evening with her or one of her fellows, just as a distraction, then rejected it. He wouldn't be able to stand being close to any woman right now. It was too raw.

As he bought a drink, retreated to a dark corner, and settled in to brood in peace, Hook wondered just why it would hurt so badly, if – as he kept insisting to himself – he hadn't really cared about her that much. If she was just a woman who had betrayed him and left him – it was unfortunate, aye, but it shouldn't be the end of the world. He was angry at her, or rather, he had been. But not anymore. It was as if the shock of hearing what Jennings had done – what he had allowed to happen – was the one thing he could not bear, and for that, for someone who knew as well as he did how hard he could fall, and how he was never the same after he did –

 _I loved her._ He didn't want to reach the conclusion, but it was the only one. _It was right there in bloody front of me, and I missed it._ Not in its fullest sense, given how brief and complicated their acquaintance had been, not enough time to grow and blossom, but nothing else possibly fit. It wasn't _liking_ her; he had liked people before. He knew what that felt like. It wasn't _admiring_ her, because he likewise had admired people before. _Even if it turned out to be a lie._ It wasn't even _lusting_ after her, because if lust was all it was, he would have taken what she offered the first time she offered it, and not even cared if she went on her way after. As difficult and as painful and as irrational as it seemed, the only word that described its complexities and its depths and its contradictions, its utter, world-changing grip on him, was that. Love. _And I lost her._

He took another sip of ale. He planned to have several more, before the night was through. But even as he sat there, lost in his haze, something chewed at his brain, soft at first and then more insistently. He didn't want to entertain it, because the last thing he needed was to torment himself with what might have been. But now, almost three weeks removed from Boston and the shattering confrontation with Jennings, the equally shattering confrontation with Liam and the choice his brother had made to leave him, rather than turning his coat, there was finally a glimmer of awareness that the only thing he had for proof was Jennings' word and a chunk of blonde hair. And of course Jennings _could_ have done it, but. . . it was certainly an easy way to get him out of there, to continue stabbing at his weaknesses, to undercut him and destroy him, or rather make him destroy himself, without any further effort on the bastard's part at all. Jennings had heard the whole story from August Booth. He knew what had gone on between Hook and Emma. If for some reason he had lost her, and had to scramble to cover it up and maintain the upper hand, what easier way than concocting this fable and maiming some other poor girl to get the hair? And Hook had fallen for it. Line and sinker.

 _Christ, I'm a fucking idiot._ That shouldn't be a surprise at this point, and yet the more he turned it over in his head, the more he began to wonder if there wasn't at least a chance. _What if she's still alive? What if she escaped, she's free, and that's why Jennings had to lie?_ Not that this would in the least equate to her coming back here, or wanting to see him again. He had said some very harsh things on Jamaica, which would make any woman justified in taking him at his word and staying as clear as possible. As well, Jennings had sunk the _Blackbird,_ so she wouldn't have a command to get back to. Had someone rescued her? Was she back with Flint? Did she not want to see him again (once more, not at all something to blame her for)? Was it just possible to beg her forgiveness? To at least know her fate for sure?

Hook – well, in that moment, for the first time since he had lost his hand, since Milah's death, since the burning of Antigua – Killian, sat up, pushing the tankard of ale away. He hadn't been able to muster up any real enthusiasm for going after Gold, but this was lighting a fire in his belly in a different way. _I could mend something. Perhaps. Not just destroy._ Remembered that he had never respected men who didn't fight, who didn't try. And so, it was becoming clearer and clearer. If he could surface. If he could breathe. What a strange and raw and perfect miracle it would be. To open his eyes, to see the sun. To stand up, and to walk.

 _I have to find her._

 _I have to find myself._

* * *

The sunrise that morning was truly spectacular, spreading over the waves in flashes of color like the facets of finely cut gems: ruby, topaz, garnet, amber, agate, opal. With the water as still as a reflecting mirror, except for the white scars of wake cut by the _Whydah_ and the flocks of seabirds that rose toward the heavens, fading stars still visible among the layers of translucent cloud, it felt like a moment that should be kept forever, painted on a canvas by Rembrandt or some other master, never allowed to disappear. Emma had been unpleasantly awake for the usual reasons, and rather than remain below in the cabin and disturb her roommate, she had gone up to the deck for some fresh air and to watch the dawn break. She was feeling better by now, but didn't want to relinquish the view, the peace and solitude. The crew was still asleep as well, only the night watchman dozing in the crow's nest, and it was idyllic.

Emma shifted her position, tugging her coat around her shoulders. She couldn't remember the last time she had done something like this: sitting quietly to just look at something beautiful, to take her time and enjoy it. This entire journey had been better for her than she had ever imagined. She had tried a dozen times to give Bellamy his bed back, but he wouldn't hear of it, establishing his sleeping quarters on the davenport and hanging up a curtain to give her some semblance of privacy. Thus allowed to slumber in the lap of luxury every night, she was – despite everything – almost starting to feel rested, knitted back together, not just scraped down to skin and bones and sinew, running ragged with nothing left to give. Indeed, she almost worried that she might be getting spoiled, that too much of a good thing wasn't something she deserved, that she would have to pay it back. Settle the account. That was usually how it worked.

The thing, however, was that Bellamy wasn't like everyone else. He was so refreshingly, astonishingly _normal._ What you saw was exactly what you got. He had had a fairly happy childhood in the rural Devonshire village of Hittisleigh, in England, though his mother had died giving birth to him, the youngest of six children. His stepmother had not been a monster or a cold, abusive taskmistress, and Bellamy sounded affectionate whenever he mentioned her. He had fallen in love with the sea and run away to join the Navy at a young age, decided it wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and when the _Windsor_ sailed to its new posting in Boston, handed in his resignation and went pirate shortly after, on Benjamin Hornigold's _Marianne_. He had relatives on Cape Cod, hence why it was his usual haunt when he became a captain himself, but he had been steadily moving on to bigger and better things. He was a pirate because it was the only way to satisfy his lust for adventure, riches, a beautiful lass or a handsome lad, and – just as much, and just as strangely to Emma – justice. He believed very strongly in his self-appointed status as the "Prince of Pirates," the Robin Hood of the sea, who stole from rich, unscrupulous merchants, freed the slaves and bondsmen on any ship he captured, never harmed the innocent or the defenseless, and had an utter, innate, soul-deep generosity in him, a decency, a delight in making people happy, especially people who had not been very happy for a long time. Another man might have done it solely for the attention and the fame, and there was no doubt Bellamy loved that as well, but it wasn't just a cynical or calculating act. He didn't do it for revenge or darkness. He did it because it was _him._

This had been proven in a particularly poignant way just a few days before. When Emma confided that the last time she had lost her home and wound up pregnant and unsure where to go was in Charlestown, Bellamy listened with great sympathy, uttered indignant slanders upon Leopold White and Neal Cassidy alike for being such unscrupulous, sniveling chickenshit cads and cowards, and then informed her that he was going to get back some of her own. She had no idea what he meant, until they veered off their course, found a heavily loaded merchanter heading toward Charlestown, methodically chased down and took her with only a few shots fired, and hauled her in. Bellamy politely enquired if the captain worked for Leopold White and was taking these riches to his warehouse, whereupon the captain was startled into admitting that yes, he was. Bellamy ordered his crew to seize the lot, paid the captain handsomely for his trouble, and once they were sailing away again, told Emma that the entire haul – the fine lace, bolts of expensive cloth, several chests of tea, sugar, and spices, porcelain and glasswork, and other coveted trade goods – had been earmarked away for her. "I'll fence it for cash if you like," he explained, "or you can keep them as is. But consider it a small repayment on the debt that White and Cassidy were too much of goose-hearted, knock-kneed, bumble-fucking pisspots to ever give you for your brother and your boy. Whatever else may come of it, at least you won't be destitute when this child arrives. Mark me."

Emma had been too touched to find the right words. She had fumblingly tried to thank him, asked if he wanted her to steal him something in return, and he looked at her as if she had two heads. "It's a gift," he said. "It doesn't have strings or tricks. It's for my friend."

 _Friend._ That was what, she had slowly been coming to realize, was the point of all this. Bellamy never failed to lavish her with compliments and ostentatious flirtations, and she was in no doubt that if she actually wanted to have a roll in the silken sheets with him, he would have been absolutely delighted to comply. But he never pressured her, never seemed in the least threatened that it had not gone in that direction, never took it as an insult or a challenge to his masculinity. He was one of the rare men who genuinely liked women, not just in bed, but as people, and he was just as happy and willing to have her there as he would be if she _was_ sleeping with him. And it was in that, in struggling to accept that she was worthy of being liked for herself, that he could give her gifts not in expectation of a future favor repaid, but because he found real value in her company, that she encountered the same thing she had with Miranda. She hadn't believed that Miranda should really consider her as her surrogate daughter, but she did. Had fought tooth and nail to save her, even at great cost to herself. No matter what, always.

And so, Emma was beginning to think that if she could at last accept Miranda's love rather than constantly questioning it, then perhaps she could do the same with Sam. Take him as a real friend, rather than always waiting for the catch, the moment he didn't like her anymore and thought her use was done. It was so difficult, so bloody, _bloody_ difficult. But she was finally, slowly, painfully, impossibly, reaching the point where she wanted to try. Where it wasn't enough to just live in her fortress of solitude anymore, shut out from any more potential heartbreak because she never stuck her neck out. If she could believe in Miranda as a mother, Sam and loyal, stubborn, devoted Will as her friends, Charles and Henry and this new child as a family, she might finally start to think that she was worthy of having them, of being wanted, of being loved. It was not until then that she could hope to approach Killian, to know what she wanted and even how to ask for it, what it might look like. Otherwise, they would be exactly what they had been before, powerfully drawn together but too clumsy and guarded and tentative and wary to let each other in, to do anything about it. She needed this. She needed to stretch her wings, to remember that she had them. To have this time safe and well-taken care of on the _Whydah,_ without any pressure to make a decision, to heal herself first.

The sun was up by now, vibrant in the eastern sky, the crew starting to wake and emerge from below, and Emma got to her feet. She was still queasy almost every morning, but at least not quite as badly, as she and the baby were starting to thrash out an uneasy agreement about how this was going to work. She might even be able to eat before noon one of these days, which would be a proper miracle. Well, it never hurt to hope. She pulled on her coat, and strode away.

They continued southwest for several more days, carving through the deep blue water of the sargasso sea. They had intercepted Leopold White's ship fairly far out – it had been coming from Bermuda, having stopped over following the long voyage from London, and by Bellamy's reckoning, it was at least a week to the Spanish wrecks from here. He reminded her that his offer to steal her a new ship still stood, but as it was a theoretical concern due to her lack of a crew, and she wasn't in a hurry to leave the _Whydah,_ she told him not to worry about it. She missed the _Blackbird_ , and couldn't think what she would call a new vessel. Maritime superstition held that it was mortally bad luck to name a ship after one that had sunk or been destroyed, so she couldn't reuse it, and she was short on other ideas. And once they did get to the Spanish wrecks, she would have to see about sending money, whether from there or the stockpile Bellamy had stolen for her, straightway back to Virginia for Charles and Henry. Ingrid wasn't going to unceremoniously turn them out on the streets, but she was in danger of missing the usual time of year that she made the payment for their upkeep, and she didn't want to run the risk.

At last, a little over three weeks since they had set out from Cape Cod, Emma began to recognize the coastline, the low sand dunes, the scrubby, twisted palms, and – several miles south – the distinctive shadows of the Spanish salvage camp. Most unfortunately, however, there was also a ship riding at anchor that was readily identifiable as one of the _guardas costas,_ the bane of every honest pirate. Evidently the Spaniards, realizing just how vulnerable their treasure was sitting on the shallow seafloor and already subject to several attempts to steal it, had managed to beef up security.

"Well, fuck," Bellamy said, having surveyed the situation through his spyglass. "We can take them on, sure, but it'll be a bit dicier than I was planning. Then again, it's entirely possible that Flint is on his way back here, and we can handle them together. That'd be fortuitous, eh? If he has your men and Miranda with him? Works out for everybody."

"Aye," Emma agreed. _Everyone except Killian, then._ She hadn't stopped wondering where he was, if he had vanished off the face of the earth, seen no point in carrying on and just dealt himself out of the game. She didn't think so, as giving up was not in the least in his character, but some hint, anything at all, would be a relief. By now, she was just over two months pregnant, and while it still wasn't much aside from the off-and-on sickness, tender breasts, unexplained and desperate cravings for certain foods, and an unpleasantly acute sense of smell for living aboard a large ship crammed with a hundred and fifty less-than-squeaky-clean pirates, it was enough that the waistband of her breeches was decidedly tight, and she could feel the change, somehow, in her body. A simple and ever-growing awareness that she wasn't alone inside it, similar to when she had been pregnant with Henry, but different as well. She thought it was going to be a girl, though she had no proof of that aside from whatever strange, stunted stump you wanted to call her motherly intuition, and as such, she had been carefully, tentatively trying out the idea of having a daughter. Considering it as a human. A _she,_ not an it.

The idea still terrified Emma, but no more than it would have anyway, and sometimes she allowed herself to see other parts of it, a larger picture. Charles with a niece, Henry with a sister, Miranda with a granddaughter (it was amusing to even attempt to imagine Flint as a grandfather) and Sam with a goddaughter (as she already had promised him the honor) that he would assuredly spoil rotten and teach how to swear like a sailor before her second birthday. The one person she had not allowed herself to visualize, however, was Killian. Not because she didn't want it, but because she knew it was a far-flung chance that they would even find him, much less that he would then agree to make up with her and accept the sudden entrance of an infant daughter (or son, it could still be) into his already vastly complicated life. She had raised a child without its father before, not counting the various times Walsh had briefly taken an interest in Henry, and she'd do it again if she had to. It was just that this time, with him, if there was the remotest chance that she wouldn't have to, then she couldn't let herself get her hopes too high.

Emma wanted to try again, she truly did, but she had to be cautious. Bellamy would take care of her, if worse came to worse, and she was beyond grateful for that safety net, one she had never had before. But no man was immortal, pirates died quite a bit more frequently than, say, greengrocers in Wiltshire, and she was not about to place all her trust in any one person. Nor did she intend to let Killian into the child's life if he was still violent and self-destructive and burning everything in his path, as she and they owed him nothing. And yet. That spark, that flame of hope, wouldn't quite go out, and had to be managed the most delicately of all.

It was decided to drop anchor for the evening and take stock, see if the _Walrus_ would turn up, or perhaps someone else. Bellamy was certainly more than confident in his ability to go it alone if need be (they could always just send him over to schmooze the Spaniards right out of their boots, Emma thought dryly) but as he was also the rare pirate who was happy to admit when he could use a bit more help, he wasn't going to injudiciously handicap his chances by acting too soon. They had made sure they were out of sight from the main camp, and Emma and Sam were sitting on the steps of the quarterdeck, enjoying the hint of autumn coolness in the evening air, when movement among the mangroves caught her eye. Once, and then again.

She tensed, grabbing at his sleeve. "Hey. I think there's someone in there, watching us. It could be a Spanish spy. If they raise the alarm – "

"What? Where?" Bellamy pulled one of his pistols off his sash, got up, and strode to the railing, peering across the glassy, shallow water. The advancing twilight made it hard to be certain, but then there was a splash, and both of them could make out the figure of a man, struggling and kicking desperately toward them. A chill went down Emma's spine, though she didn't know why, and she frowned. A Spaniard wouldn't be in any haste to reveal himself, let alone swim toward a man holding a gun on him, and it didn't make sense, not unless –

And then, the stranger paddled into the circle of light cast by the _Whydah's_ lanterns, and she realized, suddenly and horribly, that he wasn't a stranger at all. That she had asked Flint to see to it that he didn't come back, and he had dutifully ensured that he didn't. Said that he was stabbed by a Spanish bayonet, that he wasn't moving when they escaped with their portion of stolen loot – but either the wound had not been so mortal as that, or Flint had been lying all along. Because the man, while scruffy and dirty and clearly roughing it in the Florida wilderness, staying out of reach of the Spaniards and hoping for rescue, was very much alive.

Brennan Jones.


	21. XXI

**-XXI-**

"No," Emma said, before she could stop herself. "No, don't – "

Bellamy wasn't listening. Bless his heart, he was already looking for a rope to throw to the wayfarer, just as Emma and her crew had pulled him out of the sea before. Her mind was whirling madly. She had never been comfortable asking Flint to remove Brennan in the first place, knowing that it was a craven, shameful, backstabbing maneuver to solve a problem that hadn't actually arisen – Killian possibly crossing paths with his estranged father and reacting badly – and even if Brennan had done a terrible thing in the past, it didn't mean that his murder would be justified. She even felt a brief spasm of relief at the sight of him, as if this would allow her a chance to make up for the mistake. But if that meant taking him on the _Whydah_ with her, when she knew that slimy John Silver had wanted him for some reason, when Flint knew she didn't like him, when there were still a hundred and one ways that this could go wrong –

In any event, she wasn't going to get the chance to protest. Bellamy and Williams had thrown the rope, and Brennan clutched hold, hauled dripping over the railing and onto the deck. He was thin and unshaven, dark beard well frosted with silver, and his dirty shirt was stained with something that looked like dried blood; so he _had_ been wounded in some degree, if clearly not fatally. He was volubly offering his thanks, already turning on that dapper Irish charm that had worked so well for him before, and Bellamy clapped him on the shoulder, welcomed him aboard, and sent one of the men to fetch him a restorative rum ration. Emma watched from the stairs of the quarterdeck, tense and wary, until Brennan's eyes skated over Williams' head and landed on her. His jaw dropped. "Captain Swan?"

"A-aye." She couldn't exactly deny it, after all. "How – how do you do?"

"You two know each other?" Bellamy looked between them, startled. "Did I miss something?"

"I – picked him up at sea a few months ago. Said he was on the _Duchess,_ out of Charlestown, but it sank in a storm." Emma didn't want Brennan suddenly able to change his story now. "He joined my crew on the _Blackbird_ and served admirably, but he accompanied Flint to the raid on the Spanish treasure camp and he – must have been wounded. I didn't know he was still here."

Bellamy glanced sidelong at her, as he knew her well enough by now to pick up on the evasion. Still, though, he didn't bring it up in front of their guest, as the man returned with the rum and Brennan gratefully tossed it down. Bellamy told him to go below and get a good night's sleep, as he had clearly had a hard day (or rather, days) of it, and they would discuss further arrangements in the morning. Then once he had gone, Bellamy jerked his head at Emma, and she followed him into the cabin, suddenly sick and cold with dread. Nearly alone among their kind, Bellamy wasn't someone who valued or engaged in dishonesty and selfishness and betrayal, and no matter what pretty veneers she wanted to put on it, Emma knew that her impulsive, emotional decision on Brennan had been all of these. He, after all, hadn't done anything to her but serve as a good sailor, tend Macintosh's wound, and make himself useful in cleaning the _Blackbird_ and improving the crew's health and morale. If Sam found out that she'd asked Flint to hang him out to dry, was this the moment when he decided she wasn't worthy of his time, his protection, his friendship? Put her out instead, in Brennan's place? _Please don't. Please don't. Please don't make me leave._ She was a child again, left in the dark, terrified.

"So," Bellamy said, shutting the door and turning to her. "The devil is he?"

"He's – it's – complicated," Emma said faintly, sitting on the bed with a thump. "It's very complicated."

"All right, well." Bellamy was still in a good temper, but his arms were crossed, his fingers tapping on his forearm. "Make an effort."

Emma winced, wondering where to even start. At last, she returned to pulling him out of the sea on her way to Jamaica for the first time, and what had happened with them capturing Killian after the raid on the slave market, trying to extort Liam for his ransom which had then gone terribly wrong, Macintosh getting shot, and Brennan's extremely odd reaction to hearing who was responsible. Followed, after she was reunited with Will on the far side of her captivity aboard the _Imperator,_ by confirmation that he was in fact the father who had sold the Jones brothers into slavery and run to save himself. That she had panicked and asked Flint to kill him, or at least see that it happened, because she was afraid. Afraid of Brennan making things worse at the wrong moment. Afraid of him revealing her own weakness to Killian, her choice not to tell him about his father, giving him that final push when he was already balanced on the brink. Afraid of everything that had happened between them. Just so very, very afraid.

She didn't dare to look at Bellamy when she finished, as she didn't know that she wanted to see whatever expression might be on his face. He remained motionless, fingers still tapping, until he finally let out a long sigh. "Christ," he said. "Complicated is the hell of an understatement."

"I. . . yes." Emma glanced up slowly, cringing. "You're not. . .?"

"Why do I have any right to be angry?" Bellamy sat down next to her, clearly picking up on the nature of her distress. "Not what I would have done, no, but I don't get to make you account yourself to me for decisions you made long before we ever crossed paths. And if nothing else, the weaselly bastard _is_ the grandfather of your unborn child. If he has a single drop of remorse in his body about what he did to his boys, he would have to fight like hell to make sure his son doesn't do the same thing, even by accident."

That rocked Emma onto her heels. She hadn't even considered that aspect of it: that Brennan might have to help her find Killian, stop Killian from doing the one thing he had never forgiven his father for, that had scarred him for life: abandoning his own child. Brennan had done it deliberately, and Killian didn't know that she was still alive, much less that she was pregnant. But the crux of it, the cost of it, remained the same. That she somehow had to stop tragic history from repeating itself, from another Jones child being left without a father, and yet, sending this particular ghost of his past to cross Captain Hook's path now was all too likely to go down in flames. What good did it do them if Brennan genuinely repented and wanted to make things right for his grandchild before it was too late, if Hook never let him get a chance to explain? It did not seem in the least likely that he would tearfully embrace his father, absolve him of his crimes, and then rush back for a tender family reunion. It might make it even worse.

"I don't know," Emma said instead. "He'll say anything to save his own neck. He might agree to find Killian and sound as genuine as you can imagine, and then run the instant we give him a boat and send him on his way. Even if you dispatched a few men with him, that's no guarantee he wouldn't give them the slip. He hasn't survived this long by caring about anything other than his own self-interest. We don't even know where Killian is."

"Well," Bellamy said. "Sounds to me that if we made the right offer, it would be very finicky indeed for him to refuse, and then we could hold his feet to the fire. What about the other one, though? The older brother? What happened to him?"

"Liam?" Emma was startled. "I don't know, I haven't heard. I. . ." She trailed off, thinking of Killian's accusations among the flames of Jamaica. _You were right. About them, about Liam, about everything._ If the bond between the brothers had been irreparably shattered. . . she remembered as well Liam's chilling warning in the _Imperator's_ brig, just before the hurricane. That if she pushed Killian over the cliff and into darkness, when he'd given his entire life trying to stop it, he would kill her himself. No matter which way you looked at it, the Jones men were not currently serving as any beacon of functional familial solicitude and affection. "He might still be a prisoner on Antigua, if they took him when they took Killian. He doesn't like me either. If you meant sending Brennan to him instead, he _might_ be more inclined to let him explain before he did something rash, but neither of them would be able to help Killian from a jail cell."

"Well, that's his problem," Sam said firmly. "It's his debt to pay, and I don't want to expose you to the risk of going yourself. And at least someone is likely to have heard of an angry and dangerous – though very handsome – pirate with a hook for a hand, and where he might be. Once we collect my share of the Spanish gold, I have it in mind to make for the island of Tortola. There's a good harbor and cay there, a suitable place for a hideout. You'd be safe."

"You're not going to Nassau?" Emma was relieved, despite herself. That was no place for him.

"No." Bellamy raised a wry eyebrow, clearly sensing the reason for her reaction. "Too crowded, too filled with man-eating sharks, too much a place that would not, I am afraid, appreciate my particular talents. Tortola is eastward of Puerto Rico, in the islands of St. Ursula and the Virgins. Every ship coming from the Caribbean has to pass within a hundred miles of it, on its way out of the Windward Passage and into the Atlantic. The pickings would be ridiculously good."

"In the Virgins? That's very close to Antigua." Emma frowned. "Aren't you afraid of setting up shop so close to the Navy, even if they've been decimated for the time being? They won't be forever. And you'd be a much more tempting target, working there alone, than trying to take Nassau full on. They might be – well, despicable, but they have strength of numbers."

"As for that," Bellamy said. "I think it has been quite established that one pirate captain is a possible argument, two pirate captains are a certain argument, and three or more pirate captains are an out-and-out brawl. With the exception of us, of course, because we're wonderful. But since trying to cultivate alliances among people only out for themselves is like drinking the ocean with a thimble, it would be easier for me to fight off any attempted attacks by myself – and with you, of course, once we got you a new vessel. And besides. Who else might be returning to Antigua to finish certain business, and thwart any attempt of theirs at rebuilding?"

Emma's eyes widened. "So we _could_ find him? Somehow?"

"If that gormless father of his can't, yes." Bellamy put a comforting arm around her shoulders. "We'll turn over every rock, or rather, wave. Once we're rich, of course."

Emma snorted. "You _are_ rich, Sam."

"Aye, well," Bellamy said, without acrimony. "Richer."

Despite herself, she had to bite a grin. She couldn't quite express her gratitude for him not rejecting her, for accepting that she had made a mistake and not leaping to condemn her with it, and then being willing to run through any number of scenarios as to their next move, even if they were by nature rather tenuous. Finally she said, "So what do I do, if I reunite with Killian? I don't want to throw the news at him straightaway, as if that's the only reason he should think of staying, but I don't want to seem like I'm still keeping things from him or being dishonest."

"Frankly," Bellamy remarked, "if it was me,I'd just see that we had a really bloody amazing fuck, and save the talking for later. Much later. Then again, I know that ladies do like to talk about feelings, so my advice may not be the most reliable. As well, if _I_ were pregnant, I don't think all the explaining in the world would be enough."

Emma snorted again. Bellamy's obvious and profound appreciation of the finer things in life ( _videlicet_ , how very and obnoxiously good-looking Killian Jones was) had turned out to be, to her surprise, one of her favorite things about him. She didn't feel threatened by his interest, as he had already assured her that he would not be any competition, and besides, it was a bit rich of her to assume that she would still be Killian's first choice anyway. Aye, she was carrying his child, but as she had known from the beginning how this could be used as a manipulation and a weapon, that could end up being more of a hindrance than a help. If Killian was interested in this sort of thing (she didn't know that he wasn't, after all) then Bellamy might prove a far more open, adventurous, loving, caring, and capable partner. She would choose him, over herself. She tended to choose nearly anyone, over herself. No matter how much she was trying to face it, to change, it remained the most difficult thing she could possibly imagine.

"Hey," Sam said, picking up on her change of mood. "You all right?"

"I – yes. It, you know, happens these days." Emma mustered up a smile. "Well, I suppose we'll have to talk to Brennan tomorrow. And see if anyone else turns up." She couldn't imagine where else Flint would be, knowing that the treasure was still sitting here for the taking. Unless he had failed to rescue Miranda, Jennings had in fact killed her in retaliation, and hauled Flint himself off to Boston to face the noose, along with the rest of his men –

No. Certainly not, no. And did her no good to panic about, anyway. One thing at a time. One thing at a time. This, and then everything else. She could do this.

Maybe.

The dawn broke sticky and sunless, with no sign of another ship, the _guardas costas_ having moved alarmingly nearby, and Emma unable to tell if her queasiness was due to the usual reasons or to raw, overwhelming nerves. Likely some combination of both. Her heart was pounding in her throat as she rehearsed possible openings over and over, as Bellamy went to fetch Brennan (he had promised to be present for the conversation, so at least she didn't have to try it alone) and she paced back and forth in the cabin. How did you tell a man that you knew exactly who he was, the worst thing he had ever done, and throw the gauntlet in front of him to make up for it – especially when his son had become who he presently was, and the stakes were so dangerously high? As well, there was the fact that no matter if it was with the most noble of intentions, she was going to be responsible for sending the one man that Killian had most likely never expected or wanted to see again back into his life, and if it went wrong, she would have to bear the weight of Brennan's death as fully as if she had in fact succeeded in getting him killed the first time. Oh God, this was a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

Emma was so absorbed in her thoughts that she jumped a foot when the door opened, and Bellamy reappeared, with a bemused-looking Brennan Jones in tow. While he had no reason to mistrust her, he must be well aware that they weren't dragging him here solely for pleasant palaver and catch-up. He sketched a polite half-bow, but his eyes were wary. "Captain Swan."

"Mr. – Mr. Jones." Emma nodded for him to sit, as Bellamy subsided to take up an unobtrusive presence in the corner. She remained standing, still trying to work out how to broach this, and finally couldn't think of any other way but the truth. "I know who you are."

One dark eyebrow jumped, in a gesture so unconsciously reminiscent of his son that it made her heart ache. "Is that so, ma'am?"

"Yes. You have two grown sons. Their names are Liam and Killian, and when they were children, you sold them into indentured servitude aboard a ship at sea and ran to save yourself from some old crime. They grew up as slaves, until they finally managed to free themselves and buy commissions in the Royal Navy. They served honorably for some years, until they came out here this summer, in command of HMS _Imperator._ You know that, because you heard me tell you who shot Macintosh on Jamaica, and you lied to my face when I asked if you knew them."

Brennan blanched. "I. . . see."

"I've heard that you confirmed it to Flint and Will, so I'm assuming you're not going to bother denying it again." Emma remained facing him, flat and level. "I have a question for you to answer, and it had better be the truth. Do you regret it at all?"

"Of course I do." His handsome, bearded face had gone paler. "I never wanted – "

"Very well, then. Do you _want_ a chance to make up for it?"

His eyes flickered back and forth, and she could see him wondering just what trap he might be stepping into, but unable to think of a good way around it. "What would it be, my lady?"

"I. . ." Emma hesitated, then smoothed her shirt down over her slightly swollen belly. "I'm going to have your grandchild, sometime next spring. It's Killian's. And he doesn't know about it, and doesn't even know that I'm alive, after things. . . went badly in Boston. So, as you can see, it's quite simple. You can find him. You can stop him from making the same mistake you did, and abandoning his child. Atone for your crime, in the next generation."

That, to say the least, Brennan had not been expecting. "You. . . you are – you met him? The two of you are – were – ? I. . . did not realize."

"I can see that," Emma said coolly. "Nor did I intend you to. Nobody was going to know. Has the news made it all the way here to Florida, about what has happened to him?"

"No." Brennan's eyes darted to her stomach, then away. As if trying to comprehend the possibility of history repeating itself, of what was at stake for the very future of his broken family – either that, or he thought she had purposefully eaten too much last night and was trying to trick him. She kept searching for some relic of his sons in him, aside from the dark good looks, but couldn't find it. Both Liam and Killian were so. . . well. . . _steadfast._ No matter what else could be said of them, neither were in the least the sort to give up, to turn aside, to swerve from what was in front of them. Wherever they had gotten that from, it had not been Brennan, as what was built on rock in them was, in him, built on quicksand. "What. . . what did?"

As economically as she could, Emma explained what she knew about the fall of Killian Jones and the rise of Captain Hook. Brennan looked rather off his tea at that, as presumably the thought of facing the son you abandoned was difficult enough _without_ hearing that he had now become a fearsome and murderous pirate captain. When she finished, he said, "It seems he's made quite as name for himself, then? I might be able to find him, but there's no telling if I could – "

At that, Bellamy cleared his throat. "Word to the wise, mate," he said mildly. "This woman is offering you a chance even I am not entirely sure you deserve, and I'm usually the forgiving sort myself, simply because she has such an ability to overlook the mistakes folk have made in the past, and hope that they are capable of changing for the better. She has more grace, empathy, compassion, and selflessness in her little finger than you do in your entire body, and she's already stuck taking a terrible risk on you. If you duck, weasel, evade, or otherwise let down the trust that she and your own grandchild have placed in you, I will pull your guts out through your nose, tie them in a ribbon around your neck, and hang you from the top spar by them. I'm perfectly able to do it, you know. I just haven't found anyone who seemed to merit doing it to, except for Jennings, and we'll all have a party when that happens. But if you want to be the first to volunteer for the honor, you'll keep on babbling your stupid-arse excuses and planning to skedaddle the instant you can. But I really, really wouldn't advise it."

Brennan was caught completely flat-footed, without any practiced and glib patter to rescue him, and Emma shot Bellamy a grateful look. He swallowed hard, straightened up, and said, "I only meant to imply that he, well, he may not want to see me. And if so – "

"Maybe not," Bellamy said, still mildly. Emma hadn't seen this side of him before; she was used to Flint's way of threatening people, when he always looked and sounded an instant away from killing you on the spot. Bellamy had hardly been ambiguous with his wording, but he'd managed to deliver it with a smile and that light, conversational tone, which was nearly more of an accomplishment than all of Flint's menace. "Just think very, very carefully about any choices you're going to make, and what we'd think if you just happened to vanish. I'll give you a launch and a dozen men, and if you try slipping away in the night, they'll all have free rein to show you just how much we dislike cowards around here. Do I make myself clear?"

"I. . . yes, sir, you do." Brennan smiled uneasily. "I know I've made poor decisions, but this should be the time to overcome those, to forgive. If Killian – "

"Killian's the one who decides if he gets to forgive you." Emma continued to look at him with that same cool expression. "You don't have the right to demand anything from him if he doesn't. I want to believe you, you know. As Sam said, I don't have much of a choice right now. I want to think you understand what you did and what happened as a result, but I'm not sure you do."

"I do. Believe me, I do. If I could go back and change it, I would in a heartbeat. So – "

"So do the only thing you can do now." Emma's chest tightened painfully, as if she too was now grappling with the full weight of it, the scars and the damage of abandonment, of the way in which the haunting legacy of Brennan's actions had become entwined not just with Killian's future but hers as well, with theirs. She rubbed a hand over the roundness of her belly, trying to ease them both, even if she had no real reassurance to give. "You can't fix the past. You have to do your best in the present."

Brennan paused, then nodded again. "I. . . do realize that," he said, sounding different – almost genuinely sincere – for the first time. "It's just. . . not an easy thing you're asking of me."

"I didn't expect it was." Emma still didn't know what to make of him. It was in her nature to be forgiving; she wasn't a killer, she didn't like causing people pain, and she would always rather focus on their future potential rather than their past crimes, as she was so poignantly, permanently aware of her own shortcomings. She had regretted her choice to try to get Brennan murdered, and she had never been going to stand here and deny him any chance of redemption, of finally doing for his grandchild what he had so abjectly failed at with his son, but it was stretching her to the limit. If he failed in this, she would have to wonder if her entire policy of doing no harm, insofar as it was possible, was really worth it. If she trusted him, and he betrayed her, she could see a future – not a definite one, but not a remote one either – where she turned into Flint, seeing only the worst in everyone and happy to discard their lives as it suited her. She didn't want that, almost more than words could properly or fully express. For all that she lived carefully and guardedly inside her walls, it was never from a hatred of the rest of the world. It was from a fear of her own weaknesses, her creeping suspicion that if someone left her, she deserved it. Despite everything she had endured, she had never lost her innate kindness, her desire to do right by the people she did know and care for, and sometimes she even allowed herself to be proud of it. But this. This was different, and it was dangerous.

"So?" Bellamy said. "I hope we have both made ourselves entirely, _extenuatingly_ clear. You'll be on your way before the day is out. You'll start the search in Nassau, and I'll give you some token so that it's clear to Killian that you do in fact come from me. Once you track him down, you'll tell him only that Emma is alive, that she wants to see him, that he can find her safe in my company here or on Tortola, and no more. She can correct me if she wishes, but I doubt in the utmost that she wants to let you use her child as a cheap bargaining chip to guilt your son and try to force his hand on forgiving you. He needs to come back, if he wishes, because he's choosing _her,_ not once more desperately trying to not be like you." He looked at Emma. "Aye?"

"What he said." Emma turned back to Brennan. "Further questions?"

He didn't have any.

"Good."

* * *

Liam Jones' first and overwhelming impression of Boston was that it smelled like fish. Surely there were other odors in there as well – caulk, tar, pitch, turpentine, ale, sweat, wood, hemp, brine, shit, the usual rich brews of a working port – but the nearly full-body experience of fish remained upmost. It was hauled in straining nets off the boats that crowded the docks, barreled in hogsheads, pickled, hung out to dry, sliced, skinned, and beheaded so that feral cats could fight yowling for the bones, flopping on the piers if it wasn't quite dead yet, boards sticky with slime and scale. It gave Liam an unpleasant recollection of their time as boys on the _Pandora,_ as Captain Freeman had made him and Killian dice and gut endless mountains of herrings to be sold at market. The fish knife was lethally sharp and slippery, there were hundreds of tiny bones to flay out, and as it was just a few weeks after their father had left them and Killian kept insisting he'd come back, he refused to learn how. Liam ended up doing most of it, both in fear that Killian would cut himself and in fear that if they didn't at least try to make themselves agreeable, Captain Freeman would decide that the best place for them was likewise overboard in the middle of the night, but this time without the boat. He could still debone a herring in under two minutes, but the smell – and the thought of where Killian was now, hurt and left in a far more lasting way – briefly made him want very much to be sick.

"Captain," Regina said. "What on earth is your problem?"

"Nothing." Liam swallowed hard, offering her his arm for the benefit of the watching customs agents, as they strolled up, introduced themselves as William and Elizabeth Curry, traders from Barbados, and the ship as the _Jewel of the Realm._ The agents noted down the information, looked as if they were expecting payment, and to Liam's surprise, Regina fished a few bits out of her bodice and covered the tariff. When they had been admitted into the city, he said, "You do remember what I said about choosing to continue with me, don't you?"

"Of course. I don't have a short memory." She smiled, with just enough teeth to allow him to hear the implied threat. "That Emma Swan likely wasn't dead, that we had to find her to save your brother, and if I was coming along, I had to help you try to save her. Not kill her."

"Forgive me if I doubt you've given up your revenge in the matter of a day, then. You still know that the best way to find her is to stay with me, and – "

"Are you saying you'd prefer it if I left?" Regina looked at him with a slanted smile. "That no matter what, you can't trust me to put anything first but my own interests, at any cost to you?"

Liam had to consider that carefully. He didn't think she would personally harm him, and it was true that without her inside knowledge of Jennings' habits and haunts, he would have had no idea to make for Boston. His crew had come to more or less respect him and follow his orders, but there were still a few holdouts, who might have caused serious trouble if not for the fact that they were all terrified of Regina. Aside from their volatile argument in Jamaica, they had worked together tersely and efficiently, seeing no more of each other than they needed to and making a show of deliberately keeping to themselves. After he had returned from the fatal confrontation with Killian, she had been – well, comforting wasn't the word, she was too acerbic and blunt-spoken to be comforting. But she understood, if nothing else. Told him quietly that he couldn't blame himself. That when someone dwelled as deep in the heart of darkness as Killian currently did, and she had since Daniel Colter's death, nothing and no one could reach them there, make any sense or hold any sway. That if either of them were going to come out, they'd have to do it by themselves. Nothing anyone else said or did mattered the slightest damn.

Liam didn't know if this was reassuring, since he had spent his entire life trying to fix things for Killian, and to think that he was now completely incapable of doing it was the realization of his deepest and longest-running fear. But without Regina to illuminate just how those darkest places worked, how someone could find themselves lost in one without a torch, the light and the air running out until they lay down to die, it would have felt far worse. Knowing that she was fighting the same battle, that she could provide accurate reports from the field. . . if he told her to leave, he would lose whatever dim flicker of insight he had into Killian's mind right now, and then the small window of opportunity might well slam shut.

"No," he said at last, neutrally. "I don't want you to go. But if you try to hurt Captain Swan once we've found her, before we can return her to my brother, I'll have to stop you."

Regina snorted. "I was never going to simply stick a fish knife into her and call it a day. I almost think we _should_ let them see each other first. Maybe she can know what it feels like to lose him in front of her eyes, the same way I did. I wouldn't even have to lift a finger. The state they're in, _he's_ in, he'd probably manage it himself."

Liam wanted badly to deny this, but with the image of Hook still seared into his waking and sleeping memory, he couldn't. That man was capable of anything, any destructive extreme, and he might well be deluding himself to think that one woman had a prayer of stopping it. _Delusions are all I have right now._ As long as he always remembered what they were.

They made their way up the steep cobblestone street to the Navy office at the top, a handsome clapboard white mansion built in the colonial style, with red shutters and a gated front garden. Liam hesitated, then let them in, thinking of how he had told Killian that they could possibly have a life here. _I'll see about getting us a new posting. Somewhere in the American colonies, perhaps. I've heard good things about Boston's prospects._ Well, here he bloody was, to examine said prospects in person, and it didn't matter much what he concluded. He knocked briskly on the door, waited until a servant opened it, and when asked for their names and business, began to answer with their aliases – then changed his mind. "I'm Captain Liam Jones," he said. "Formerly of HMS _Imperator._ I'd like a word."

The servant must not have heard the full tale of his disgrace and downfall – Boston was quite a long way from Antigua, after all – because he let them in, took them to the sitting room, and told them that someone would see them shortly. Liam perched stiffly on the high-backed mohair armchair, while Regina paced back and forth like a cat in a cage, until the door opened, someone in Navy blues stepped through, he looked up – and almost had a heart attack.

" _You?"_ He sprang to his feet, fumbling for the sword he wasn't wearing. "What the – what the _fuck_ are you doing here? How did you follow – I swear I'll – "

"Easy!" The man held out his hands as if in the presence of a dog about to bite, looking rattled. "Christ! My name is David. Captain David Nolan, at your service."

" _David_ Nolan?" Liam had to take a moment to calm his racing heart. "I thought you were – "

"I can guess who you thought I was." David Nolan bowed courteously to both of them. "Sir, my lady. I regret that my brother's infamous reputation so far precedes him yet again. You can be assured, however, that I have no part in his crimes. I was told you have business?"

Liam was jolted further at the idea of both of them having brothers whose grasp on reality, morality, and sanity was currently questionable at best, that they were struggling in quite different ways with. _If he's the good brother and James the bad, which the devil are Killian and I?_ From the Navy's point of view, it was obvious, but Liam no longer knew in the least. For his part, David Nolan probably wouldn't mind if James dropped dead tomorrow, but Liam, of course, was hell-bent to save Killian no matter what. It wasn't easy to stand here and look into a face he had last seen holding his brother down while Jennings cut off his hand, but he knew painfully that he couldn't treat the one like the other. He inclined his head stiffly. "Apologies for my mistake, sir. It is good of you to receive us so promptly."

"Of course." David beckoned for them to sit, sinking onto the settle. "Captain Liam Jones, did they say it was? I've heard of you. I've always – well, I've always rather admired you, I'm honored to meet you in person."

"You what?" Liam felt entirely unworthy of being admired. "Why?"

"Well, because of your shipboard policies." David looked surprised that he would have to ask. "That you dared to be decent and honorable and do the right thing by your men, and treat them as such, not merely vermin who could be flogged and starved to death and have more hauled in by the press gang when you ran short. I have always tried to command the _Windsor_ the same way, and you're the reason for that. So. . ." He shrugged awkwardly. "Thank you."

Liam opened and shut his mouth. To say the least, he had not expected this, and he was stunned at the thought that anything he and Killian had done on the _Imperator_ really mattered, had had any impact on the conduct of the Navy outside their one, lonely ship. To know that the _Windsor_ had done the same. . . no, it wasn't some great worldwide victory, or ultimate repudiation of pervasive institutional brutality, but it was more than he had ever expected, and he briefly found himself rather choked up. He coughed, glancing at the floor, wondering if he should tell David what a wreck had ultimately come of that. Save him some difficulty, in the long run? But he couldn't bring himself to it, and he smiled uncomfortably instead. "Ah, I suppose you're welcome, then. But as it is, I have a question. Do you happen to know anything of the recent actions of one Henry Jennings?"

"Henry Jennings?" David looked surprised, and rather skeptical. "There's suddenly been quite a surge of interest in him. As a matter of fact, I apprehended him and his ship at sea just a few nights ago. He was wounded in action, so I took him ashore to be treated. He's a vile man, frankly, but he's in the personal employ of – "

"Lord Robert Gold," Liam completed grimly. "Therefore you can't legally do anything to him. I will hazard a guess that one of his recent misdeeds includes the murder of one Emma Swan?"

David Nolan blinked. "How did you – never mind. Yes, that is one of the crimes laid to his account, but as the lady in question was a pirate, it's not something he can be charged with under the law – he was, after all, just doing his job in removing her. What would – "

"I don't think she's dead." This was a dangerous wager, and David could still turn them in to the Navy higher-ups if this started sniffing too much like treason, but as he had just admitted to admiring Liam for defying them in the name of human decency, Liam himself had decided to risk it. "Jennings was lying. He might know where she really is, and I need to have a word with him. About that, and. . . other things."

"Indeed?" A slight frown creased David Nolan's blonde brows. "If that's the case, I will, of course, have to ask why a fellow Navy captain is interested in tracing the whereabouts of a known pirate. I had someone – well, two someones – looking for her not long ago. One of my old sailors, Samuel Bellamy, and another man. Killian."

Liam managed to keep his expression implacable, with an effort. "That was – is – my brother. I don't know if you've heard of him too, but – "

" _That_ was Lieutenant Killian Jones?" Nolan's surprise was evident, and almost sad. "Well, I certainly would never have guessed if you hadn't told me. He's gone rogue, then?"

"I. . . he. . . yes." Liam looked at his hands. "I realize it's irregular. I realize I am asking far more of you than I have any legal right to do, or that you could safely or easily give. But if you met him even in passing, you must realize what's become of him, and I have to stop him. That means finding Emma Swan, and for that, I need to talk to Jennings. I'm sure he has no intention of cooperating without an inducement, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

David was quiet. Then he said abruptly, "My wife, Mary Margaret – she's the daughter of Leopold White, a rich merchant from Charlestown, in the Carolinas. For several years, the family had a maidservant named Emma Swan, who lived there with her younger brother. Only when Emma was discovered to be pregnant after the visit of a notorious rake, who left as quickly as he had come, Leopold decided himself unable to countenance the scandal, and put her and her brother out of his house. Mary Margaret only came home for a visit after it was done, and by the time she discovered it, it was too late to change. It never sat entirely well with her, what her father did to that poor girl. Is this the same Emma Swan, do you know?"

"I. . . don't, not for certain." But Liam recalled what he had been planning, to chase up her old connections in Charlestown, and this seemed like too much coincidence to be an accident. "However, I do know that she uses Emma White as an alibi, and that we indeed met her in Jamaica when she introduced herself as the daughter of a rich merchant from that very city. It seemed to be the usual way she got into important circles without revealing herself as a pirate captain. So yes, I'd say the odds are very good that it is."

"Ah." David considered a moment longer, tapping his fingers. Finally, he stood up and said, "I don't know where she is, and couldn't legally say if I did. But for whatever you can get out of that wretched bastard Jennings, I'll let you have a quarter-hour to talk to him. I wouldn't advise turning your back on him. He's wounded, but that makes any animal more dangerous."

Liam looked at him narrowly, then nodded. He and Regina rose to their feet and followed David down a corridor, up a set of creaking stairs to the second floor, and down the hall to a door at the end. He took a key out of his pocket – no matter if Jennings had diplomatic immunity, David clearly did not want him wandering around unsupervised – unlocked it, handed the key to Liam, and raised his voice. "Captain Jennings. You have visitors."

"Do I?" The figure sat in the chair by the window turned around slowly. His left shoulder was wrapped in bandages, and he didn't seem able to move much faster, or get to his feet without effort, but neither of them were falling for that. Upon getting a look, he grinned maliciously. "Captain Jones and Madam Mills. Oh, this must be _quite_ a story."

With a look, Liam instructed David to see himself out, which the other captain did, shutting the door behind them. He then turned back to Jennings, reminding himself to be very careful. He wanted to lunge at him and slam his head into the ground, anything at all for the pain he had caused and continued to cause them, but he couldn't do that. Jennings sat there with eyebrows raised, waiting for him to commence, and when he didn't, said, "Well? Before we're old, then?"

"I know you didn't actually kill Emma Swan," Liam said evenly. "Where is she?"

Jennings smirked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, clearly adopting a pose of maximum insouciance just to see if he could get under their skin. "Do you? Afraid I don't know. Tried to beat it out of Flint's whore, but she felt like being difficult. I hope that wasn't too much of a bother, for you to come all the way up here and get nothing. Must be frustrating."

"Listen, you – " Liam caught himself, walking back down, as to rise to Jennings' bait would be the worst thing he could do. He was about to try something else, Lord only knew what, when he caught a glimpse of the other man's hand. "What the – is that my ring?"

"This?" Jennings held it up. "I got it from Swan, yes. I'd say it's my ring, now."

"Why did she give it to you?"

"Preferable to the alternative, perhaps?"

Liam glanced at Regina, remembering that she had said that she had to ban him from her establishment, that even she found it too expensive to cater to his particular desires. He could well guess what Jennings meant by that remark, which gave him an unexpected surge of righteous anger on Emma Swan's behalf. He may not like her much, but nobody deserved this odious pond slime sicced on them, and hearing that Jennings had also gone out of his way to make life difficult for her as well, after everything he had already done to the Jones brothers, strengthened the sudden solidarity. He absolutely hated seeing his lucky ring on that man's hand, even knowing what the stakes must have been for Emma to give it up, and he had to once more remind himself to be careful. Jennings was far more accomplished at this game than he was, and utterly ruthless in its playing. No need to show him just where to bite down the hardest.

"It's not that important," Liam said coolly, not giving Jennings the satisfaction of seeing him rile. "You can keep it, I don't care. So you lost Emma, did you? I do hope Gold doesn't find out about that. Not a good look for a supposedly loyal henchman."

Jennings shrugged. "Do I care if he does or not? I've switched employers once already, I could do it again. Offer me the right incentive, I could turn into _your_ best friend. Start singing like a canary, everything I know. Help you get close to his various outposts and offices across the Caribbean. Take _him_ down instead. How much are you offering?"

"I – what?" Liam should have been prepared for this, as a man who worked for money and only money never had the most firmly fixed of loyalties, but it took him off guard and added an even more dangerous element to the proceedings. "You destroyed us on his behalf, you cut off my brother's hand, you sank Captain Swan's ship and God alone knows what else, and you think we'd ever want to _work_ with you?"

"I'm open to negotiation." Again, that shark-white smile. "Aye, I did all that, and I will remain devoted to you and your brother's complete destruction. . . as long as Gold is paying me enough for that to be the case. It's quite a lot, so you'd have a hard time overmatching it, but it could be done. You've seen what I've accomplished, set against you. Do you really want to keep trying your luck?"

Liam eyed him, still more coldly. He had to fight a brief and unsettling impression that he was talking to the worst part of his conscience, the darkest recess of his soul, that had gulled him into accepting bargains with bad men – Plouton and Gold – before, when his back was against the wall and there looked to be no other way out. He was not at all interested in making it a hat trick, yet it was as if he was looking in the mirror and seeing the evil shadow and fetch of himself, down to the wounded shoulder and his ring on Jennings' hand. Objectively, he knew that turning Jennings to their side, depriving Gold of one of his most valuable assets and dangerous weapons, would be a massive coup. But for the same reason, he knew that it would risk costing them far beyond what they, or he, could afford to pay – in money, or anything else.

"Well?" Jennings pressed, when he didn't immediately answer. "I know the coordinates to the Spanish wreck site, and I would have had a fair bit of treasure, if your pustulant little brother hadn't chased me off – back when he had two hands, that was. I'm not sure how he's amusing himself these days with one. Then again, a man only really _needs_ one, eh?"

"Shut up." Liam clenched a fist. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I am languishing dolorously in the dubious grip of the Navy's hospitality, my ship has been damaged, you _clearly_ need all sorts of help or you wouldn't be within ten miles of me, and you're lucky that I am a charitable and giving fellow who doesn't hold a grudge. Get me out, reunite me with my men, and ensure we make it back to the wreck site without further molestation. If we can collect the cut of the spoils we were originally planning to take, we'll hold you as our benefactor and ally, not Lord Robert. Simple."

"That's insane. You think I'd take the wolf into the henhouse and then feed him more eggs, and that you'd have any intention of – "

"I'm a mercenary." Jennings shrugged again. "Frankly, politics bore me witless. I played the part of the good Jacobite as long as Lord Archibald was padding my pockets, but James Stuart is an inbred fanatic and George of Hanover is stupider than a post. Whichever of them wants to sit the throne, I don't care. Nor do I care about stopping piracy and overthrowing Nassau and whatever other drums Gold beats. Only as long as he pays me. What do you want me to be, Captain? The perfect little Navy sailor? It might be a stretch, but if the money's good, I'll give it a try."

"I don't want anything to do with you." Liam was feeling rather filthy just by being in the same room with him, and yet he still couldn't walk away with no leads at all. Kept telling himself he would never sink to Jennings' level, when he couldn't be sure if he already had, long ago, and just kept denying it, the way Regina claimed. For her part, she was watching with a slight smirk, as if she was enjoying the process of seeing just how far he could be pushed. Jennings hadn't bothered to work on her at all, clearly aware that it would be much more fun with Liam, and he had to fight the impulse to clear the fuck out of here and let them amuse themselves however they would. "You'd sell me out again the instant you got a better offer. The risk – "

"Show me an investment without a risk, and I'll show you a poor man." Jennings grinned. "I negotiate the best deals for myself and my crew to do our jobs. They always get paid, from the deepest pocket out there. That's why they love me, that's why they'll do whatever I ask them to, that's why you really don't want me as your enemy if you can at all afford it. But no, I understand. You have to take the empty moral high ground, yet again, and act as you think would be _right,_ not what would be _useful._ Who are you planning to justify yourself to? Your little brother, the one who killed the entire Royal Navy headquarters in the Caribbean and all those poor unfortunate souls in Jamaica? Aye, I'm sure he's in a real position to judge you."

"I – " Despite himself, Liam faltered. It was true that Killian's rampages of the last several weeks had not left much room for other people to be branded murderous lunatics, or for him to censure their extreme choices. Just do it, one more time. Make the deal with the devil, if that was what it took – but no. Not again. Not like this. It was clear that anyone who made the mistake of regarding Jennings merely as a mindless attack dog working for the highest bidder, with no real volition or ambition of his own, would not live long enough to regret it. He was the most dangerous of all, precisely because while everyone else had their agendas and binding commitments and desperate ends that they would pay any price to achieve, Jennings simply profited off their weaknesses, and would kill any and all of them if the wind changed. The nearest analogue Liam could think of was that he was the Horseman of War, from the Book of Revelation. He was given focus and form and power and meaning by chaos, favoring none, devouring all. Might ride at your side for a time, make you think he was your friend, even as the sky was falling. Only, in the end, to destroy you too, and not once look back.

At that, Liam also thought of the parish church in Bristol, the one with the massive jawbone of a whale serving as the roof arch. Among the candles always burning to the memory of those who went to sea and never returned, there was a painted mural of a group of sailors gazing lustfully on mermaids with the heads of devils, while Christ stood on the headland in place of the lighthouse, trying to guide them safely back to shore. Ulysses and the sirens' passage, respectably made over for a seafaring Protestant society. It made Liam wonder why the idea of going to sea, of leaving firm land and the rules of mankind, had long been such an apt metaphor for temptation. In the abstract, it was easy to understand that you had to follow the lighthouse, not the sirens' voices, when you were standing safely on land and could declare that of course you would do the wise and safe thing. Out to sea, in the thrall of the elements, when all the best intentions and exalted rules of mankind did not matter a single damn, there was nothing and no one to stop you from doing whatever, quite literally _not_ on earth, you pleased.

Yet that, somehow, firmed Liam's resolve. _I can do without this sort of help._ Even if it made finding Killian and Emma that much harder, he was willing, for once, not to take the shortcut. He straightened up, and looked Jennings dead in the eye. "No deal," he said, flat and level. "Good day, Captain Jennings."

The man actually blinked, as he must have rarely been turned down before in his appeal for new employment. "You're making a mistake, Jones."

"No, actually. For once, I'm not making it." Liam turned on his heel, gesturing to Regina. "I hope you enjoy Boston, I've heard it's a fanciable place. Goodbye."

With that, he let them out, locked the door again, and headed downstairs to return the key to David, informing him that unfortunately, they had had no luck. Regina held her tongue until they were outside, then could do so no longer. "He's right. You're making a mistake. If we get Jennings away from Gold – "

"Yes, I know. You think that after taking infernal bargains from both Plouton and Gold, this is suddenly and arbitrarily where I draw the line. Well , I don't care for your opinion, madame. I can still find my brother _without_ breaking Jennings out and taking him on board my ship. So – "

"You don't care for my opinion?" Regina's eyes were narrow. "Even with your record of making the wrong decision at the right time before, now you're just making the wrong decision at the wrong time. You don't get points for style or good form, Captain. If nothing else, Jennings has the coordinates for the wrecks, and there will be other pirates there. One of them is likely to know where your brother is. You could, though it strains my imagination to picture, bargain with one of them, get them to take you straightaway. Or you'd rather sail around in circles for months, trying in vain to ever get close enough to pirate waters, just because you turn up your nose at a man who, on the face of it, isn't much different from you?"

"We are _nothing_ alike." Liam reared back, especially stung because of his own thought earlier, that he was looking at the worst half of himself in a mirror. As if Jennings was what he could become if he just kept sliding, taking every deal he was offered, until he no longer saw any line that he was not willing to cross. "You will not – "

"What if I could control him?" Regina faced him defiantly. "Or at least render him more. . . amenable than usual? I know a few _bokor,_ vodou sorcerers. There are drugs, you know. Poison made from the spines of puffer fish, jimsonweed, other substances. A pinch of it, and a man feels light, unburdened, dreamy. A bit more, and he loses control of his own mind, his own volition. He does dumbly what he is told. That is where the legend of zombies comes from, you know. They're not corpses brought back from the grave. Just living men, properly bridled."

"That is. . . that is _evil."_ Liam turned away, revolted. "We're not making Jennings a drugged slave! We're not having anything more to do with him! We're leaving, as soon as I ask a few more questions around the docks, and that's final!"

Regina eyed him sourly, then reverenced a sardonic curtsey. "As you command, O Lord and Master. I'd never disobey my _husband."_

Gritting his teeth, Liam decided that he needed a break from her company for the afternoon, turned on his heel, and left her behind without another word. He spent several hours trolling the dockyards and port offices, but nobody was able to turn up a definitive paper trail. There _were_ a few who remembered somebody roughly corresponding to Killian's description, traveling in company with a ginger-haired glowering brawler and a black-haired swaggering charmer, but all became quite evasive when asked why they hadn't collected any names or ship registries. _One of those miscreants bribing them like all get-out, I imagine._ David Nolan had mentioned that Killian was with someone named Sam Bellamy, which rang a distant bell in Liam's mind; he was sure he had heard that name in connection to pirate activities before, which meant that Nolan likely had too. Had he refrained from arresting Bellamy, even though he probably knew perfectly well what he really did, because they were old friends? He'd also let them visit Jennings after disclosing his wife's connection to Emma, and had said that he tried to follow Liam's example in captaining the _Windsor._ He seemed decent enough, shockingly. For whatever that was worth.

At last, Liam was finally able to get someone to cough up that if Killian had indeed been with Bellamy, it was worth it to sniff by Cape Cod, as that was where the man usually sailed through. If Emma _had_ escaped, this was also a connection she might know about, as a pirate herself, and it could be an option for her to meet up with him. They were not likely to still be conveniently anchored there, but someone had to have an idea of where they had hied off to. Perhaps this could be done after all.

Thus, Liam felt almost hopeful as he made his way back to the _Jewel_. He strode down the quay and stepped on board, thinking that they would depart tomorrow morning. If the news about Jamaica and Antigua had not arrived yet, he would be well served not to be here when it did, as wanting to find the perpetrator for any reason other than to swiftly hang him would be very bad. Even David Nolan, clement as he might otherwise be, would look at that askance. And then –

Liam opened the cabin door, and froze to the spot.

"Good evening," Regina said sleekly, stirring something in her teacup. Her companion, sitting across the table, was just lifting his to his lips. No telling if she'd dosed it with something vile, or it was merely a cordial business meeting, to hammer out the terms of their – no, no, _no –_ their new alliance. "Captain Jennings and I are so _delighted_ you could join us."

* * *

The return voyage had, thankfully, been less of an event than the outgoing one, though it was anyone's guess as to whether this was a good thing or not. Will was inclined to think so, seeing as he had spent the fortnight en route to Boston packed in the _Bathsheba's_ brig with very little food, water, or privacy, wondering every moment if Jennings or some of his men were going to come down there and drag Merida out for some "sport." He and Mac would have fought to stop them, but as this would probably have resulted in their own death, he was grateful for numerous reasons that it had not come to pass. At least on the _Walrus_ he had his own hammock, a regular share in mealtimes and watches, and the only person shagging Merida was Mac himself, which was a state of affairs that had become established rather quickly. They kept trying to be discreet about it, as even on a pirate ship, men would not appreciate one of their number having all the fun while they had only their hands for company, but that was not working out for them.

In the meantime, they kept on heading for Nassau as fast as they could go, which was sometimes quite fast and sometimes not fast at all. Flint was not going to risk another sea battle with them starting to run low on supplies, as well as with Miranda aboard, and the malcontents mumbling about the lack of recent scores would have to keep mumbling for at least a while longer. Will had, for his own safety, adopted a strict policy of not even walking anywhere near the cabin, as the two of them were usually in there if Flint didn't have someone to annoy on deck. He couldn't help but wonder if Miranda had told Flint whatever the reason was for Emma's solo escape – surely he would have asked why Emma had left her alone, or what had gone wrong if both of them had been meant to make it? If so, however, Flint was certainly not about to breathe a word to anyone. That man could know the ancient alchemical formula for changing lead to gold, or the location of the lost city of Atlantis (though you'd think he'd be a lot richer and not have to bother with this whole pirate business if he did) and nobody would be any bit the wiser.

At last, they were less than a day out of Nassau, preparing to dart in, drop Miranda, pick up a few extra cargoes of food, powder, and shot, and be directly on their way again. That, however, was when this fine plan hit what was usually known as a snag. Said snag was the sighting of another ship on the horizon – which, when it drew into range, was revealed to be the one ship Flint never wanted to see under any circumstances. His great rival, Charles Vane and the _Ranger._

"What the fuck is he doing out here?" Flint snarled, twisting shut his glass with a look that could have rivaled Medusa for sheer snaky-headed stony business. "Doesn't he have some lowlife to brawl with in some godforsaken hellhole? Who would even – "

There was no way for the two ships to avoid each other, besides the fact of Flint wanting immediate answers, and they shortly drew close enough for their respective captains to glower at each other more efficiently. It gave Will an unpleasant turn to lay eyes on Vane, who of course had nearly beaten him to death on the occasion of their previous ill-fated meeting in a tavern, and he decided to judiciously lurk among the rest of the crowd. Rackham – was that him? Shit, yes, it was – was also as weak-chinned and obsequious as usual, plus he still had the sideburns, further increasing Will's distrust. Oh, and his lady friend, Bonny. Real charmer, that one.

"The fuck are you doing?" Flint shouted, in case his opinion on the matter should not have been clearly stated enough before. "Suddenly _you're_ out and about after months of sitting on your hands and refusing to sail as my consort?"

"Funny thing, Flint. I don't need to sail as your fucking consort anymore." Vane grinned, teeth white in his sunburned face. "I've got the coordinates for the Spanish wrecks myself, and now that the treasure is sitting there on the sea bottom, I can just go in and pick it up. No need for you at all. Must chafe your arse right sore, doesn't it?"

"You _what?_ Who the bloody hell could give _you_ the coordinates for the – "

"Some new prick. Called himself Hook. Wanted to enter the harbor, so he bartered them off. Said he didn't know where you were, no ally of yours, either. Surprise you?"

It clearly did rock Flint, in fact, along with Miranda and Will. It was also clear that he was facing a truly intolerable choice: whether to head all the way back to Nassau to resupply and drop Miranda off safely, and thus run the risk of his rival making it to the wrecks before he did, able to take first pick of the plunder and get all the credit for the scheme that Flint had so painstakingly and dangerously planned for so long. It was comparable to asking Flint if he would rather walk barefoot over broken glass or be sodomized with a splintered broom handle. Not to mention the residual grudge he held against Hook for cutting and running back in Boston, thus nearly costing him a chance to rescue Miranda (Emma, Will thought, he could take or leave). Finding out now that Hook had spilled this priceless information to _Vane_ was the icing on the cake. In no event would he like to be Hook, whenever Flint got his hands on him again.

"Hook – _Hook_ is in Nassau?" Surprisingly, it was Miranda who spoke. "Is he still there?"

"Was there when I left." Vane shrugged. "He some friend of yours too? Fairly sure we don't need any more of those."

Flint loudly loosened his sword in its scabbard. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what, you'll cut my tongue out from here?" Vane shifted into a combative stance of his own, as if the two of them would sprout little wings out of their boots, flap into the air, and cross blades among the shrouds and sails of their respective vessels. Well, that would be a stirring spectacle, if quite a stupid one. "Let me know how that goes for you, while I – "

"James." Miranda turned to Flint, putting a hand on his arm. "I need to get to Nassau."

"What? For _that?_ I'd rather get you home as fast as possible, aye, but – "

" _James."_ Miranda gave him one of those looks that long-married women used so effectively on their husbands, the sort intended to make them realize that absolutely no good could come of crossing them on this matter. "It's important. It's about – it's about Emma."

At that, Will's ears pricked up as well. "What about her?" he demanded, forgetting to remain anonymous. He glanced at Vane, hoping he didn't remember their meeting in said tavern – no wait, shit, he definitely remembered it. "Where is she? The devil does Hook have to do with it?"

"It's complicated. But please. Trust me."

"Get you there how?" Flint objected. "We'd have to sail all the way back while letting this dung weevil get the jump on us to the wrecks, we only have a longboat and it's too far for a man to row, and if you did find Hook, you should punch him in the face from me, rather than – "

"I'll take you," Anne Bonny said.

It was impossible to overestimate the effect of this utterance, especially coming from a completely unexpected front. As everyone on both ships swiveled to stare at her, she shrugged defensively. "We 'ave a launch. I can handle it with an extra man or two. Not far to Nassau from here. No one else seems about to volunteer."

"Anne," Rackham said, still blinking. "Is there something I am missing? You have made your opinion on our friend Captain Hook exquisitely clear, and now you want to – ?"

Anne gave him a searing look. "I ain't doin' it for him."

"Then – I am honestly baffled, please, darling, do enlighten me – what can be the reason for such a munificent offer that seems to run counter to all – "

"She said it was for Swan." Anne eyed them defiantly from beneath her hat. "Not right what happened to her, not by that Jennings. Should help another lady, if I can."

"I had no idea you _were_ a lady."

Anne's look turned into one that nearly burned Rackham's eyebrows off, and which he instantly recognized as a boulder-sized hint to shut his mouth if he ever wanted to get laid again in his life. Vane and Flint appeared equally nonplussed by the women's sudden decision to band together against them, and Vane said, "You can't bloody take the _Ranger's_ launch without asking me, we could need that. I'm not about to – "

Anne laid a hand on one of the knives at her belt. "We can fight for it."

"No, no, no," Rackham said loudly. "No fighting, you two. Jesus Christ, I think I'm in nursery school sometimes. Charles, I myself do not understand what on earth Anne thinks she's doing, but if it frees us to continue without a serious incident, shouldn't we at least consider it?"

Vane looked at him scathingly, clearly saying that he had no incentive to make it easier for Flint, and would happily delay him with everything he could possibly think of. "Whose fucking side are you on, Jack?"

"Whatever side allows us to get as much money as possible, as fast as possible, without some idiotic, self-inflicted injury because you were too stubborn to let Anne take Flint's lady friend out of harm's way. Are you saying you wouldn't let her do the same if it was, say, Miss Guthrie in the line of fire?"

Vane looked as if he was very seriously considering wringing Rackham's neck and chucking him overboard, and Will himself had to admit to a sudden (temporary, only temporary) upsurge in his estimation of the yammering sleazeball. Finally, however, Vane spat, "Fine. It's a bargain. I'd rather beat you black and blue in a straight fight at the wrecks, Flint, so might as well both of us get there at the same time. You'll wish you fucking didn't, though."

"I'll be the judge of that." Flint tipped him an extremely sarcastic salute, then turned back to Miranda. Much quieter, he said, "Are you sure about this? If that bastard Hook hurts you – "

"He's not going to hurt me." Miranda smiled reassuringly up at him, laying both hands on his shoulders. "I need to find him. I told you, it's important."

"Very well," Will said. "Then I'm comin' with you. Not having you go completely alone."

Flint gave him a surprised look, on the verge of refusing by old habit, but could in fact see the sense in this, and grudgingly deferred. Merida and Macintosh looked startled, and the latter took a step forward, but Will held up a hand. "You two and the others, you stay and get us a good share of that Spanish money. I have to find our captain."

Mac looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine," he said. "But I'd feel better if ye would at least watch your fool back. Though I should be stabbin' it meself, for everything you've been blethering about the past few days."

"In that case, you'll be glad to be rid of me, eh?" Will raised an eyebrow. "Much more peaceable fuckin', that way."

Mac took a swing at him, Will ducked, and on that note, he and Miranda collected their things, boarded the _Ranger_ in a reprise of their dramatic escape from the _Bathsheba,_ and joined Anne Bonny, who grunted, beckoned curtly to Will, and went to the ship's launch: the largest of its boats, with a sail that could be put up to spare them having to row, which should be a journey of four or five hours back to Nassau. Miranda climbed in, Will and Anne lowered it, and hit the water with a splash, the ropes squeaking through the hoists. With Rackham waving anxiously at them from one ship, and Flint staring holes through them from the other, they set out.

There was not much to report from the journey. The _Ranger_ and the _Walrus_ quickly faded on the horizon (Will half-expected a plume of smoke from them starting to shoot each other on the instant) and the waves rolled on. Anne was a most competent sailor, and the launch was small enough that she didn't need his help tending the lines – he had tried, and gotten such a look that you'd think he had tried to see her naked. Stung, he snapped his mouth shut, only to open it again thirty seconds later. "So, Miss Bonny – that what I should call you? – good of you to – "

"Told you I didn't do it for you." Anne tied down the sail and resumed her seat. "Keep talking, and you can swim."

Will was miffed, as if she didn't fancy a talky bloke at all, there was no conceivable way to explain how she had ended up with Rackham. But he could at least understand that Anne viewed herself as helping out Emma, her fellow female pirate, and perhaps Miranda as well, far before she was doing it in any part for any of the men involved. _Makes sense. We're a bit thick, really._ If he was in her position, he too would be quite sensitive to injustices done to women, suffering more than usual in this world. Which at least gave him a distraction from wondering why on earth finding Hook was going to fix anything, though if it was true the bugger had gone a bit mad upon hearing that Emma was supposedly dead, but if she wasn't –

 _Oh, shit._ Will suddenly had a most unwelcome epiphany. _They're sweet on each other, aren't they?_ He didn't know if it was more than that, or how Emma had possibly come away from being captured by the Navy with the desire to get closer to anyone in said Navy, but there was no other explanation. Miranda had to find Hook to tell him that Emma wasn't dead, and this might call him off the spectacular reign of death and destruction he had been embarking on. _They can be a nice pirate pair, then, is that the idea? His-and-hers pistols and cutlasses?_

Will did not necessarily think this was a good plan, but he had to watch over Miranda; she would stick out like a sore thumb in the rougher districts of Nassau, as she almost never went there herself, staying to her house and the small village on the interior of the island, the last remains of genteel British society. Her association with Flint was enough to keep most people at a healthy distance, but there were plenty who would see her as easy pickings. They would be enlightened as to the idiocy of that notion promptly and fiercely, but still.

At last, just past sunset, they finally made it back, coming around the cape and into the harbor as Anne lowered the sail, and she and Will took the oars for the rest of the way in. Almost immediately, they passed what was instantly recognizable as the _Imperator_ – but no, it had left all traces of its old allegiances behind, was completely and fully a pirate vessel now. Will grabbed Miranda's sleeve and hissed, "Oy. That one's his. Vane wasn't lying. He's here."

She went slightly pale, but nodded, lips firm. They considered rowing up and knocking at the hull, see if anyone was home, but the ship was dark, riding at anchor, without anyone visible on the deck; the crew must be ashore. So they sculled the rest of the way in, tied up, and Will offered Miranda a hand onto the crooked, swaying boards of the pier. With Anne at their side like a small and homicidal shadow, they set up into the darkening streets.

Will swiveled his head from side to side, trying to keep hold of Miranda's arm and look for possible hook-handed lunatics at the same time. It was a warm, busy night, people coming and going and laughing, drinking and shouting and playing dice, the clink and flash of coins and gems, the flick of battered cards, the clunk of tankards and pitchers with ale and wine, casks of rum. By the number of half-naked women he had already seen running past, with inebriated pirates trippingly in tow, some captain or other must just have arrived with a good score, and his crew were now enthusiastically spending it as fast as possible.

Miranda made no comment on this bacchanal, as she was far too well-mannered to do so, and Anne led them through the muddy alley, up toward a tavern Will recognized; he and the _Blackbird's_ men came here a lot, and he could usually get a good rate on a night's roll in the hay from Arabella. They pushed open the door, entered the cauldron of heat and noise, and looked from side to side. No Hook.

They were just about to leave and go on to the next one, when the door swung open again and brought with it a rush of cooler night air. Speak of the devil, the man himself – though Will had to take a moment to be sure, as he looked absolutely nothing like his old self – entered, abstracted and clearly lost in thought, but at least not appearing as if his next move would be to go mental and murder everyone in sight. Indeed, he looked almost – well, a bit more human, really. Even had the traces of a smile pulling at his mouth, as if he had a plan in mind and was making preparations. Something not just about what port he could burn next, but purpose.

That, therefore, was when the man across the way stood up from where he had been sitting, surrounded by a dozen vigilant-looking sorts who also stood up when he did, and Will's breath shriveled in his chest. Bloody hell, he didn't – he should have _known_ something had gone fishy in that raid on the Spanish camp – but the bastard _had_ been stabbed, he was supposed to be dead, he was _supposed to be dead,_ but he wasn't – and this – and that – and _he –_

Oh, Jesus ice-skating Christ.

Captain Hook's eyes met the newcomer's across the tavern, and at that, even though nothing else tangibly changed, Will felt it like a shock of lightning. Felt the world suddenly spin off and cease, go dreamy and slow and stupid, almost as physically as if he was in Hook's head himself, experiencing the tumble and fall alongside him. Because, really, there was nothing else to say, nothing else to do, but the word Hook's lips formed, silent in the tumult.

" _You."_


	22. XXII

**-XXII-**

His first instinct was to run. No matter the crowds, no matter the fact that every eye would see him and thus decide him a coward on the spot, ruining any future prospects of being taken seriously or as a name to fear, Killian didn't care. He wanted to turn, he wanted to go as fast and as far as he could and not stop until the nightmare loosed its clutches, until he could forget it altogether, until he could convince himself it had been nothing more than an uncanny coincidence or strange mistake, and that he had not in fact seen what he knew he had. His memory of his father's face was hazed and faded, twenty years old, but not so much that he was in any doubt of it. It was more weathered and windblown, sunburned and seamed, with thick streaks of silver in the dark hair and beard, but it was still the man who had lit the candle and come to him belowdecks in the blackness of the storm and the tossing waves, told him not to be afraid, to decide what kind of man he wanted to be. And Killian's eager answer, ringing in his ears like a mockery. _When I grow up, I want to be just like you._ How Brennan had smiled at him, then. Told him to go to sleep. _And when I opened my eyes, you son of a bitch, you were gone._

He tried to take a step backwards, but his feet had frozen to the floor. He wanted very much to do something, anything at all, but he couldn't. Was stuck watching his father – his fucking _father –_ make his way across the room toward him, trailed by several men who looked faintly familiar. He thought he might know them from somewhere, but his numb brain was not interested in furnishing specifics. Someone could have whipped out a sword and run it through him, and he wouldn't have moved an inch to avoid the blow. It sounded like someone else's voice – not even Hook's, a total stranger's – that croaked, _"What the fuck are you doing here?"_

"I'm sorry." Brennan reached out as if to put a hand on his shoulder, thought better of it, and pulled it smartly back. "Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?"

"The devil makes you think I'm interested in hearing anything you have to say?" To his mortification, the words almost cracked. He recovered himself enough to turn the next ones into a withering, ice-cold hiss. "Get out of my sight before I kill you where you stand."

"I. . ." Brennan hesitated. "I'd likely deserve that. But this is important, I swear. I wouldn't have sought you out unless it was extremely – "

"Oh, there's a surprise! Wouldn't have sought me out unless there was some reason you couldn't possibly avoid it? You've been alive, you've been free all this time, and you never tried to come find us? Not once? Jesus bloody Christ, I – "

"I thought you. . . you might be angry. I realize that from your point of view, it's very difficult to understand, and if I could have it back, I'd – "

" _It's very difficult."_ Killian looked at him mirthlessly. "I don't care about any of your excuses. I'll give you your life, this once. I see you again, I'll show you just what kind of man I am."

"No! Wait!" Brennan reached for him again as he whirled on his heel. "Killian, please, listen to me. It's important! It's about Emma Swan!"

 _That_ took him through the back of the head like an executioner's bullet. He was once more locked in midstep, as he could feel it settling in a cold thrall of shock and disbelief and the horrible realization that if the smallest, the most desperate fraction of what his father was saying _was,_ God help him, true, he would have to hear him out. There was no way he could think of for Brennan to know the first thing about her unless they actually had crossed paths – had Emma somehow put him up to this? Surely, as Brennan had already admitted, he wouldn't take the initiative to do it by himself. _How the blazes would she figure out who he was, though?_ Had Emma known all along? Had she been planning to blackmail him with it, or worse? Oh God, how long had everyone, _everyone,_ been lying to him?

Slowly, so slowly, utterly loathingly, Killian turned around. He saw absolutely no way for this to end well, but even worse, he saw no way he could avoid it and live with himself. He thought of his confrontation with Liam aboard the _Jolie Rouge,_ when he wanted nothing more than to just get away, had finally broken down, thought Liam might come back to him, and then lost him for good, and his heart was too fragile to replay the scene again now. But he might never get another chance, and depending on what Brennan had to say, it might spare him from the need of having to go after Emma at all. _If she wants me dead. . ._ Oh God, no. No, he couldn't. No.

And yet. His first impulse aside, Killian Bartholomew Jones did not run. He faced what was before him, as awful and as broken and as dark and as terrible as it might be, and he pointed his prow into the storm. In large part, it was because this was the one thing his father had done, which he could not excuse or forgive. _What can he tell me, about himself or about me, that I don't already know?_ And call it some misguided shred of optimism that had confoundedly failed to be beaten out of him with everything else, but he didn't think Emma would go to the trouble of sending his father – if that was indeed what she had done – if she did in fact want nothing to do with him. _Unless she wants him to drive the knife through my heart himself, just to make sure the punishment is complete._ If that was the case, he'd much rather die anyway.

"Fine," he said, barely above a whisper. "Privately."

Brennan nodded to the men escorting him, all of whom gave him identical dubious looks – was it Killian's imagination, or had they been well warned of his propensity to slip out like a greased ferret? – but stood at the head of the narrow, dark corridor into the back of the tavern, where the two of them walked stiffly side by side, emerging into the enclosed, cobbled courtyard at the rear. It was built with a second-story veranda that housed the establishment's other money-making occupation, and the giggles and groans of whores and clients drifted from behind closed doors, along with the squeak of mattress ropes. They picked their way through the hogsheads of ale, buckets of slops, scatters of straw, and other such detritus to a less audibly amorous spot, a twisted palm tree by an archway looking out into the dark harbor. Brennan sat on a pile of sacks, and made an awkward gesture inviting Killian to join him, but he remained standing, hand on his sword, positioned between his father and the way out. If he tried to run one more time, he'd – he'd – he didn't know what he'd do, exactly, and it frightened him.

"Well?" he said at last, curtly, desperate to break the silence. "Talk."

"Killian. . ." Brennan looked at his hands, then up at the stony face of his younger son. "I was hoping we could – "

"I don't want a single one of your half-arsed, mealy-mouthed apologies. I imagine you've worked it out all very neatly in your head, about how it was somehow the best thing for us. It was the best thing for _you,_ you gutless maggot. It always will be. I'm letting you talk because you said this was about Emma Swan. Don't make me regret that choice."

Brennan flinched. "Very well. You're right. It was best for me. I've been – well, it doesn't matter where I've been. I met Captain Swan when she and her crew pulled me out of the water after the wreck of the ship I was on, the _Duchess._ I believe she met you and. . . and your brother on Jamaica. I served on her crew a short time, then accompanied Captain Flint on a raid on the Spanish treasure camp some weeks ago, and was badly injured. When I woke up, the _Blackbird_ and the _Walrus_ were gone. I managed to recover, but I was in some straits. Yet recently, Captain Swan returned to the wreck sites, in the company of Sam Bellamy on his ship the _Whydah,_ and we were. . . reunited. They sent me after you. She's alive, and she wants to see you."

"She's. . ." For a moment, utterly without any other appropriate considerations or old wounds or guarded responses, Killian's first and overwhelming reaction was one of sheer, impossible, reeling joy. It drowned him like golden light spilling from the heavens, warmth and glow, burning in his chest as steady as an ember. "She's _alive?_ For certain?"

Brennan nodded. There was something slightly strange about his expression, but his voice sounded, for bloody once, sincere enough. "I last saw her less than a week ago, and she was quite well. She's with Captain Bellamy, he's taken good care of her."

"Sam Bellamy. . ." Killian decided that if he saw the man again, he would kiss him directly on the mouth, which he suspected Bellamy would not mind at all. Assuming, that was, that Bellamy held no hard feelings for abandoning him in the middle of the standoff with Jennings in Boston, but he seemed to have come out of it all right. "Those are his men with you, aren't they? That's where I've seen them before. Probably ordered to keep a hawk's eye on you, if they were warned about your manner of dealing with difficult situations."

Brennan could not exactly deny this, and so he glanced down awkwardly. "I. ." He hesitated. "I believe they feel it's rather important that you come back."

"Oh?" Killian reminded himself who he was dealing with, that he had to pull himself together and put his defenses back up. "And why is that?"

"I. . . well, I don't know for certain. It did seem a matter of urgency. You can find them either at the Spanish wrecks, or on the island of Tortola. Bellamy plans to sail there once he's collected his haul. Wants to establish a base, I believe, and offered you to come and serve as his consort. He has high hopes for the richness of the pickings."

"And you agreed to do all this?" Killian felt rather dizzied. "From – what? The goodness of your heart? Forgive me if I doubt such a thing actually exists. They had some leverage on you, something forcing you into it. What was it?"

"Can a father not want to make peace with his sons? After so long, and so many wrongs?" Brennan looked up, eyes rather bright. "Killian. . . I did think of you, you know. You and your brother both. I was desperate, I did something foolish, and I regret it, I have regretted it ever since. I know you don't believe me, but it's the truth."

Despite himself, Killian wavered. He wanted nothing so much, then, to do with his father as he had with Liam: to let his guard down, to crack, to break, to be comforted, to ask him to reconcile, to come home. But he knew better than to ever trust Brennan like that again. _You murdered that naïve eight-year-old, the one who thought his papa was the best man in the world. Murdered him with your bare hands, and never even left flowers on his grave._ Still, the desire was overwhelming. He hesitated again, then sat on the sacks beside Brennan. Not too close. Staring down at hand and hook, he said, barely above a whisper, "You never even looked for us."

"I know. I was what you called me – a coward, a gutless maggot. I know I was." Brennan looked at him, eyes now sparkling openly with unshed tears. "You and your brother both, you're so much stronger than – "

"Liam. His name is Liam. Did you forget that, while you were so far away? Why aren't you saying his fucking name?"

"I – no, I never forgot. Not in the least. I just – well – "

"Liam was older than me," Killian said dully. "He knew you better. You know what he did? The very first day we realized what you'd done, that we were on the _Pandora_ alone and you were gone? He told me that you weren't coming back. I didn't believe him. I argued and cried and swore and stamped that you were. I refused to help him do anything that Captain Freeman wanted us to do, because I knew you were returning, that you'd never actually leave us like this. And yet. Liam was right. He always was. And I learned my lesson about believing in you."

"Liam _was?"_ Brennan looked at him in alarm, noting his use of the past tense. "Is he. . .?"

"What does it matter?" Killian clenched his fist, struggling against the wave of grief he felt whenever he thought of his brother. It made every sinew hurt, made him want to close his eyes and wake up and find that it was just a dream, that they were back in the Navy together, that they were safe. _Liam was right. It was the best for us, it was the only way we could escape and live as honorable men together, and I threw it in his face. Oh God, I didn't, I never. . ._

And yet, even as he yearned for what had been lost, he remembered why it had been, and by whom. How there was nothing in the world to make him close his eyes again and fall meekly into line, go back to serving the corrupt system, deluding himself that he made a difference by not being as flagrantly bad as everyone else. Would never kneel to or forgive or let up in his drive to scour Gold, Plouton, Jennings, and all their ilk from the face of the earth, and no amount of missing Liam would sway him from it. _I asked, I bloody begged him to help me, and he wouldn't. He left me too._ To hell with Liam, then, if his precious honor was still worth more to him than condign vengeance. _I've already lost my left hand, what's losing my right to boot?_

They sat in silence for several moments, listening to the sounds of Nassau at night. The moon was huge, almost full, a fine fat pearl in the velvet blackness of the sky. When he was younger, Killian had rehearsed this moment obsessively, all the things he would say to his father if he saw him again. He had made a good start, to be sure, but he knew there was more, much more, diatribes he had thought out in extensive detail as an angry stripling barely able to control or contain his rage and resentment. But now that he was sitting here, actually face to face with him, all of it seemed hollow and trite. Nothing he could say would fully convey the extent of the damage, the endless, empty years. He couldn't make Brennan understand, and he was too exhausted to try. He had wanted to kill him, but even that seemed pointless. Would do nothing, fix no one. Should just let him go on his way to whatever miserable fucking end he merited, and wash his hand of it.

"So," Killian said at last, quietly and savagely. "I still have to wonder what exactly Bellamy blackmailed you with, to make you do this. Had to be something bloody good. I don't believe you for an instant when you say you wanted to make it up to me. Sorry."

"I – " Brennan hemmed again. "I – well, I _was_ hoping to get some word of my – of my son."

"Your _son?"_ Killian repeated bitterly. "Aye, I already told you, I don't – "

And at that, he stopped. Something in Brennan's face made him ask, a possibility he had not even considered, but which clenched his heart in a freezing fist. "Your. . . your _son?_ You don't mean us, do you? Someone else. Another son."

"I. . . after I. . . I left, I eventually met a woman, and. . ." Brennan glanced briefly at him, then down again. "She changed me. Made me a better man. I loved her very much, and we were married. We had a child, a boy. But my wife died in Le Havre, where I was running a tavern, and the lad and I came out to the Americas together, but were separated by a fire in Charlestown. He'd be about seventeen by now, and I. . . well, I would like to find him again, if I can."

"You had another son, and you _left him too?"_ Killian's throat closed, as well as his chest. "Turning over every rock to find him? No, of course you weren't! Can't be arsed to know if he made it or not! Find him again, if it's no trouble or inconvenience to you? Find him, but not us? We have a half-brother, we have a _bloody_ half-brother, and once again, you – _you –_ "

"Killian, listen, please, I – "

" _My name is Hook!"_ He boiled to his feet, whirling around, almost shaking with fury. "Why do I have to keep telling everyone? Why do any of you foul spineless reprobates think you can call me anything else? I knew you hadn't changed! Everything you said was a lie then, and it's a lie now! Every breath you take is a deception, every single bloody – "

"Killian, I swear, I just wanted to know if – if Liam was – "

" _Liam?"_ Something even colder gripped hold of him, pulled him inside out, heart and lungs and viscera exposed like a traitor slashed to pieces on the gallows. _"You named the new boy Liam?"_

"It was meant as an honor, a tribute!" Brennan got to his feet as well, holding his hands up. "I never intended – "

"No! You never _intend_ anything, you cockless, spineless, brainless, soulless bastard!" Hook drove his left arm into the wall hard enough to splinter it, then again, but that was nothing close to enough. "Even then, Liam was the son you wanted to replace, wasn't he? You couldn't give a damn about losing me! You knew you'd only made a sacrifice giving up _Liam!_ The one who loved me and cared for me and protected me every bloody day, every _bloody_ day, at the cost of his own bloody soul! You don't deserve a thing about him! You don't get to pretend you can do it over! The reason I'm still alive is because of him, and now you think you can just – "

And at that, something snapped in him, turned him crystal-clear with understanding, with acceptance that there was only one thing he could do. As Brennan reached for him imploringly, he whirled around, ripped out his knife, and without another word, stabbed him.

His father made a choked, gasping sound, touching the spreading red flower of blood in disbelief. "Killian. . ." he managed. "Killian, no, don't. . . listen to me. . . Emma. . . Emma's going to have – she said. . . my grandchild. . . for their sake, don't. . . I didn't. . . I tr. . . tried. . ."

" _How dare you!"_ Hook's rage burned white-hot behind his eyes. "You never changed, you did the same thing to the son you named for the only one of us you gave a damn about, and now you can't get me to kiss and forgive you, so you _dare,_ you _dare to lie about that?_ You filthy, bleeding _parasite!_ You're trying to trick me one last time, and I already said that I learned my lesson about believing you! You son of a _bitch!"_

He stabbed again, blindly and wildly, feeling his blade grate against bone. Tears running down his face, stinging and burning, as Brennan made another choked sound and collapsed against him, leaving a great smear of blood down his jacket. He closed his eyes, shuddering from head to heel, feeling as if he was about to be sick. Brennan reached for him one last time, feebly trembling fingers, but he kicked him into the gutter with the rest of the rubbish. Gasped for air but couldn't get it, felt as if he had stabbed himself as well, couldn't stand there and watch it end, had been turned from ice to water, and so, fittingly, he did in his father's last moments what his father had done all his life. At last, and finally, Killian Bartholomew Jones ran.

He blundered just as wildly down the corridor, back through the tavern, out into the night, even as he was vaguely aware of someone pelting after him. He intended to kill them too if they got close, until someone reached out, caught him by the arm, and used all their strength to swing him against the alley wall. "Mate! Jesus Christ, stop! You have to bloody listen to me!"

Hook was too undone to give a single damn, but somehow, impossibly, awareness fought through the haze, until he saw someone – he recognized the voice more than the face, but it was one of Emma's men, one of them from the cave. If he was capable of feeling shock, he would have felt it, but he didn't leave off struggling. "Go to hell!"

"Stop!" the young man yelled back. "My name's Will Scarlet, I'm her first mate! Emma's! Back there – I know who that was, he's bloody filthy pond scum, I – what did he – what did he say to you?"

"I don't care!" Hook lashed out again, making a very serious effort to brain Will Scarlet with the business end of said appendage, but he ducked. "None of it was true! She's probably still dead anyway, I can't believe I fell for it, I can't – "

"What? No! Listen! She's alive, all right? Emma! She's alive! I don't know where she is, but you have to listen to me. Me and Mrs. Barlow and Bonny, we came to look for you, we – "

" _I don't care!"_ Nobody understood, nobody could see a bloody thing. "What does it matter? I can't face her like this, like a – like a monster! I've been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of men, burned everything, sacked it, and now I've – I've killed my own – " He felt his stomach starting to rebel, bile burning his throat, and swallowed heavily, struggling for breath, forcing out the words. "If – if my father wasn't lying, but. . . no, he was, I. . . is she. . . is she pregnant?"

"What?" Will blanched. "No, she's not pregnant, she just – "

"I knew it! I knew he was fucking lying!" Rage welled up inside Hook all over again, blasting away the grief and guilt. If for half a delirious moment he had weighed the thought of it, of a strange little family, of creating something, of starting something new, had hungered for it more than anything, he felt it ripped from his fingers and washed out to sea in the torrent of his father's endless deceit. _Even ten wouldn't be enough to hold on._ All lost. All gone. What did it even matter if Emma _was_ still alive, when he was not remotely worthy of returning to her? _I said I wanted the world to burn, and it has. Christ, it has. All of it. Everywhere._

"Mate." Will jogged to keep up. "Mate, I don't know what happened back there, but – "

"You're not my bloody mate. Just get out of my way." Hook felt almost too tired to scream, to struggle, to do anything anymore. "Tell her – I don't know. Tell her I'm dead."

"The bleeding, bloody, ruddy hell am I lying for you. I don't even lie for my friends, and as you just said, we aren't friends anyway. I know who he was, all right? Your father? Brennan? Remember you told me in the cave what he did to you two? So what are you going to do, run away just like him? That's it, eh?"

At that, Killian jolted to a stop, grabbing Will by the arm and throwing him bodily against the harbor wall. "Shut your mouth, or – "

"Not one of my specialties either. _Mate."_ Will's dark eyes burned defiantly back at him. "So punch me or kiss me or kill me or whatever you're plannin' to do, because at this point, I can be pretty bloody sure it's an incredibly stupid idea and I'm not going to help you out with it. I'm sorry for him. I'm sorry for what he's done. But he wasn't lying to you about Emma. She's alive, and – can't say I understand it myself, because I don't – still wants to see you again."

Killian slowly uncurled his fingers, letting Will free, and they stared at each other for a very long, fraught moment. Then he said, barely more than a whisper, "Aye then. All right. Glad you told me. But look at me. I'm a broken bloody mess, I've nothing to offer her, I'm nothing like the man she thought she knew, the entire Caribbean wants to kill me and I thumpingly deserve it, and I'd just get her killed too. If she's with Bellamy, she's far safer and happier than she'd ever be with me, and it would be bloody selfish of me to wrest her away from that. I'm already a dead man, Scarlet. Dead men don't get to dream about the future."

Will flinched. "Look," he said. "We're none of us saints here, all right? We've all done shit things. I know it's harder for you, because you came from a place where you always told yourself you couldn't ever do a bloody thing wrong, that you had to be perfect, that you couldn't cock up once or it was the end of the world. But I promise, it's not, it – "

"I killed him." Killian could barely get the words out. "I killed my father, all right? I know pirates lie and cheat and steal and fuck and whatever bloody else. That doesn't mean they're monsters. I've done worse. So much bloody worse. And if I cared about Emma in the least degree, why would I expect her to care in turn for Captain Hook? It's not a small thing, it's not something I can excuse. I've given into the darkness and I've drowned. I'm not fit for her or anyone right now, and if you'd argue that I am, I'd have to wonder if _you_ cared for her at all."

Will opened and shut his mouth. "If you do want to go, then," he said at last, "I can't stop you. But what else are you going to do? You know it's not going to make you happy, so – "

"I have to kill Gold and Jennings," Killian said bleakly. "I have to make them pay. I can't live with anything, anywhere, otherwise. Happiness doesn't enter into it. And I don't want Emma to see what's going to happen to me along the way. What already has. I can't."

Will kept looking at him for a long moment, still apparently trying to think of something else to say, but couldn't. Finally, then, he nodded. "Fine," he said quietly. "I respect you for havin' enough decency to own up to every one of your choices, and what they're goin' to cost. I don't think it's going to be what you want, but that's something else for you to decide. Good luck."

Killian looked back, half-formed words on the tip of his tongue, vague notions of grand speeches. Thanks, perhaps, or begging for forgiveness, none of which meant, in the end, a bloody thing. At last, he simply nodded once, turned on his heel, and went.

* * *

It was a long bloody walk back for Will, second-guessing himself every step of the way and not sure that he'd done the right thing by letting Killian go, but also aware that to someone like him, who had such a profoundly scarred soul from all the long years he had not been in control of his own life, when he had been a slave forced hither and yon by other men's whims and rules, forcibly stopping him would have been the worst thing he could do. His head was spinning. He was quite sure that until Brennan Jones made his star-crossed appearance, Killian had not considered himself beyond hope, beyond any glimmer of a new chance with Emma – indeed, he had walked into that tavern with a spring in his step and purpose in his eye, very much as if he was planning on going after her, on trying again. But when his father rose out of nowhere like particularly noxious swamp gas, it mortally wounded him as well, catapulted him straight back into that scared eight-year-old boy sold into slavery, all raw nerves and broken heart, beyond any ability to trust himself or believe the least bit good of himself. Nothing but fear and grief and anger, nothing but cracks and chasms, the endless fall into the abyss.

 _Bloody, bloody Brennan Jones. I'm starting to see Emma's point about asking Flint to do him in._ Will's mouth tightened grimly. Not that he had taken much convincing on that front, really, but this had played out almost worse than anyone could have imagined. It was true that the person Killian Jones was now was in no fit state to attempt anything with anyone, but Will couldn't help but grieve over the peculiar and shattering tragedy of it. So many missed opportunities, so many small moments, so many bits and pieces of a life that could have been, a future that had gone up in smoke, a fork in the road and a turning untaken. It wasn't like him to get maudlin; he accepted things as they were and did his best to move on, and this wasn't even his broken heart, his lost dream. Still, though. It was hard to take, even in a world like this.

Halfway up the hill, he met Miranda and Anne coming down it, clearly in search of him and half-wondering if they might also find his butchered corpse bleeding out behind the midden heap. Upon finding him alive and ambulatory, they skidded to a halt, spared from the need to ask how things had gone from his grim expression and the conspicuous lack of any hook-handed pirate captain meekly in tow. Miranda's face fell. "He's gone?"

"I'm sorry." Will rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I tried. I did my best, I swear I did. It's just. . . the bloke we saw in the inn, the one who got to him first – well, it's the hell of a long story, but that was. . . that was his father. As in, the one he last saw sellin' him and his brother into slavery twenty years ago, and scarpering for it. Dunno if you saw, but it didn't go well. Really, _really_ didn't go well. Jones senior got his fool arse killed, and Jones junior can't stand what he did, even if Brennan damn well deserved it, and. . . yeah."

"His father?" Miranda looked aghast, though it was hard to tell if it was at Killian's shocking action, or the sheer scale of the demented odds that had pushed Brennan Jones into his son's path mere instants before they themselves had the chance. "Oh Lord, that poor boy."

"What? Killian?" Will was surprised. "Have to say, I thought a lady like yourself wouldn't be too approving of the whole, you know, patricide bit. Or is it that you – "

Miranda looked at him quite calmly, until he remembered who he was talking to – that she and Flint didn't go so well together because she had no appetite at all for paying back in kind those who had done them wrong. Indeed, quite the contrary. The hunger for justice burned in her as strongly as it ever had, and she was just as capable of wanting said malefactors dead at her feet, the sort of vengeance that only Flint could give its fullest form. Still quietly, she said, "I would have killed my father-in-law myself if I had the chance, and if James had not sworn to seeing it done first. I doubt I'm about to pass judgment on another man who did."

"Ah. Well, then." Will blinked. "As I said, the git entirely deserved it. Would have stabbed him meself, if I'd known it was going to wind up like this. No bloody clue what exactly he was fillin' our friend Hook's head with, but it sounded pretty bad. I mean, he even asked me if Emma was pregnant, so clearly Brennan was just throwin' whatever at the wall to see if it – "

And at that, he looked at Miranda's face. Had another of those slowed, almost dreamy, crashing-down moments, the same as when he'd seen Hook and his father lay eyes on each other at the tavern, the knowledge of irreversible calamity that was already far too late to be stopped. He stared at her in horror, all the pieces of the previously inscrutable mystery suddenly dropping into place. "Oh, Jesus. Tell me she isn't."

"I. . ."A faint, burning color rose into Miranda's cheeks. "I should have told you."

"You bloody think? Never occurred to you on our little joyride to Nassau that that might make a difference in what we – or I – would have to say when we found him?" Will was incredulous. "Instead he still thinks he's got nothing left to live for and he's beyond any hope of redemption for her and he just – "

"I made a mistake." Miranda's lips were white. "I was trying to protect Emma, especially after it was so imperative that nobody find out while we were still in Boston. I didn't mean – "

"Yeah, I'd say you bloody did. Even if you weren't goin' to blurt it out in front of the crew, you still couldn't have mentioned it to me on the way? Or just figured bigmouth Will Scarlet, you can't trust him with no secret, he'll just – thanks! Honored that's what you think of me! Bloody thanks a lot! Just like Flint with never sayin' a word, even when you really bloody – "

At that, Anne stalked forward, hands on both her knives. "I'll gut 'im for you, mum."

"I – no, no, don't." Miranda brushed a loosened strand of hair out of her eyes, fingers trembling, as Will was reminded that absolutely nobody should act uncivilly to a lady in Anne Bonny's presence and expect to get away with it. "He's right. I thought it wouldn't matter, that I would be able to talk to Hook without it having to come up, but I. . . misjudged. I'm sorry."

"So that's why we needed to find him. Not just to stop whatever the hell he's doing to the rest of the Caribbean, but to stop him from inadvertently doing the same thing his bloody interfering wretched wanker of a father did." Will scrubbed a hand over his face again. Aye, you weren't supposed to speak ill of the dead and all that, but if that was the case, the dead really should have tried to be less of a total waste of space in life. "You've been with Flint too bloody long. Jesus."

Miranda took this levelly, although her mouth tightened again. Then she said, "If we can get down to the harbor, it's possible he hasn't gone far. I didn't want him to find out this way, but he deserves the chance to know it wasn't merely yet another lie his father told him. Come on."

With Anne leading the way, still shooting baleful glares at Will as if expecting him to attack Miranda when her back was turned, they picked their ginger way through the streets. It was quite late and dark by now, they kept being delayed by wayward drunkards and carousers, and finally Anne drew her knife and nearly gelded the next poor fool who stumbled across their path (better him than me, in Will's opinion). They broke into a run, sprinting to the end of the docks and into their boat, but before they even got the oars into the locks, the _Jolie Rouge_ was almost out of sight. She was catching the wind; there was absolutely no way for them to catch up with rowing. The launch did have a sail, but their odds of keeping pace in such a small craft were likewise extremely dim. And if they did get out there, then what? Casually drop this cannonball on Hook's head and expect it to suddenly effect some miraculous change in his conviction that he was utterly unworthy, that he ruined everything he touched? He might be persuaded to at least hear Miranda out, but that was far from a sure bet, and after the recent several weeks of her life, it was very unlikely that she wanted to spend yet more time stuck aboard a rival captain's ship. Flint wouldn't take well to that either, especially considering he was already holding a formidable grudge against Hook for the regrettable end of the Boston episode. _Bloody hell._

Will remained where he was a moment longer, then turned to Miranda. "Well? You're the mastermind here, remember? What wise plan do you have now?"

Her eyes were fixed on the barely-visible silhouette of the ship, vanishing into the dark horizon. She appeared to have no immediate answer. Of course they weren't going to throw up their hands and call it a day; she was still driven to find Hook, to make it right for Emma, to correct her mistake in not trusting Will with the secret. But they couldn't chase down the largest and most formidable pirate ship in the Caribbean aboard a small boat, completely without provisions or shelter or water or guns or anything else necessary for an extended voyage over unforgiving open sea under the brutal tropical sun, and it would be quite a stretch to make it to the wrecks in said boat as well – if any of them even knew the coordinates, which they didn't. They were either marooned on Nassau until Flint made it back, or they would have to find another crew to join up with, assuming any other captain on the island wanted to paint a target on his back by taking the notorious Mrs. Barlow aboard. They weren't idiots. They knew if a single hair on her head was harmed, Flint would kill them, burn them down, kill the ashes, and then do something else rude to the killed ashes. _Well, this is just bloody perfect._

"We'll have to requisition another ship," Miranda said. "James and Emma are Eleanor Guthrie's chief allies, she has to be induced to do a favor on their behalf – and I had her father in my care for some days as well, in case she is inclined to be intransigent. And Hook left in such a hurry, some of his men must have been left behind. If we can find them, we should be able to convince them to reunite with their ship. I'll do whatever I have to. I'm not giving up."

"Aye, well," Will said, feeling slightly bad for shouting at her earlier. "Of course you won't. But I. . . I dunno if there's any savin' him, now. He's gone past the Rubby – the Ruble – the what's the bloody word for it?"

"The Rubicon," Miranda said composedly. "The part in the plot where you can no longer turn back, the point of no return. _Alea iacta est,_ the die has been cast. The phrase Julius Caesar uttered when he began his war against Pompey, according to Suetonius."

"Right." Will had forgotten how well-read she was. Not that he recognized any of those names in the least, except for Caesar, and as he was the one who got stabbed by his former best chums right in the middle of the Senate, that was not exactly encouraging. _Lot of stabbing going around these days, evidently._ But it didn't matter, she was in it to whatever end, and so, then, was he. With a final long look over the dark water, he turned and followed her into the night.

* * *

For a very long moment, Liam thought, and indeed prayed, that he couldn't be seeing correctly, even as he was horribly, irrevocably aware that he was. He couldn't be seeing Henry Jennings sitting here in the cabin of _his_ ship, sipping tea with Regina as if in the salon at London, smirking at him as if asking what he was going to do about it, that he was stuck with him no matter what. That his decision to reject him and his Faustian bargain hadn't mattered a brass dam, that he – that they – that it had to be like this, all over again, he wasn't –

Liam had no idea what came over him, just that it was as powerful as a crashing wave, black as a moonless night, and he was utterly helpless to resist it. He vaulted across the floor, seized Jennings by the collar, and threw him bodily onto the trestle table, cracking his head with a juicy thump. With that, he began to punch every inch of him he could reach, heavy, hammering blows with a closed fist, face and nose and gut and wounded shoulder, determined only to inflict as much pain as possible. Jennings sputtered, trying to get his arm up to shield his face, but Liam battered it aside, hauling him upright and flinging him against the wall, hard enough to make the lantern fall off its sconce and smash with a shriek of breaking glass. Jennings got in a blow back, clipping Liam's cheek and making him see brief bloody stars, but he didn't even care. He retaliated even more savagely, until Jennings went flying, hit the carved mermaid by the window, smashed it to bits, and landed awkwardly spread-eagled in the corner, barely conscious. Liam stalked over to loom mercilessly above him, reaching for the sword on the windowsill with the full intention of administering a fatal coup de grace, but at this he was abruptly halted by someone grabbing his arm and hanging on for dear life. "No. Stop. Captain – Liam. Stop!"

"What?" Liam snarled, a loose curl falling in his eyes as he swung on her. "Afraid I'd kill your pet before you had all your fun with him?"

"I – I'm sorry." Regina's face was pale. For all that she had tried so hard to get him to break, to give into temptation, to let loose the rage and darker nature, she didn't look triumphant now that he finally had. Almost frightened. "I – I didn't think – "

"Aye, it's bloody obvious you didn't!" Liam tried to rip his arm free, but she was clamped on tight. "Just figured I'd swallow my pride and do what you said, put up with whatever I had to, make alliances with whoever passed, didn't _really_ hate Jennings that much and would be talked around to your superior wisdom? I'd say you bloody didn't think for a single instant!"

"I. . ." Regina licked her lips. "Wait, all right? Just wait. I – I gave him something, he should – "

"Oh, because that makes it so much better." Liam was so tired, so bloody, _bloody_ tired. "How the fuck did you get him out of David Nolan's office? I swear, if you laid a finger on him – "

"Nothing. I didn't do anything. I sent by a letter summoning him to a fake meeting, and once he was gone, I simply walked out with our – friend." Regina's gaze was flat and grim. "I thought you were making a terrible mistake leaving him here, where he could keep opposing us and keep offering himself to whatever other hellhound sailed by, and at least this way we'd have him here. Under bridle. It was worth the risk."

Liam snorted loudly. But even as utterly furious as he was, and as much he was itching to finish the bastard off on the spot, he could (very reluctantly) see her point: Jennings was a deadly weapon, and it was much wiser to have him in sight and in quarantine, rather than out God knew where, wreaking further dangerous havoc in consort with whichever of their enemies was willing to pay him enough. But this. . . having him _here,_ in front of him,even in some sort of stupefied, drugged haze. . . assuming it even worked and Regina knew what in the devil she was doing. . . it was vile, dishonorable, unconscionable, and yet –

 _I want my brother back._ Liam had never lived this long without him, especially when their relationship seemed to be splintered beyond repair. He still didn't want Jennings' help, wasn't going to make any bargain with him, and intended to kill him the instant this was over and he decently could – he'd follow protocol about it, challenge him to a formal duel – but he supposed it would be less than useless to just put Jennings back in his cell now and blithely sail off. If nothing else, Jennings would be even more motivated to get back at them, having received such a pummeling at Liam's hands, and he wasn't going to take that chance.

"Fine," he growled. "Just tell me one thing. If you have these herbs and drugs with you, what's to stop you from slipping them into _my_ drink, if I do something else you don't agree with in the future? Or is that just Jennings' especial lot?"

"I. . ." Regina hesitated, then looked up at him. "I wouldn't do that to you. I swear."

"Because you have such tender regard for my free will, or because you've already cottoned on that it might not work on me?" If nothing else, Liam possessed the constitution of an ox, and was able to bull through most ailments, mental or physical. "Eh?"

"If I wanted to do it to you, I would have already tried long ago. I did try most things, you know." Regina set her shoulders, throwing her head back. "And I certainly wouldn't have told you that I had the capability, even now in relation to Jennings. I'd let you think I was simply extremely persuasive, or he was just that eager for Spanish riches, to comply without question."

Liam grudgingly supposed this made sense, even if he was no closer to absolving her for the underhanded, backstabbing maneuver in which she had accomplished all of this. They looked down at Jennings, who did have a certain glazed, distant stare in his eye which seemed to indicate that apart from the thrashing Liam had given him, the mind poison must be kicking in. Liam felt unclean just watching it, but he also couldn't deny that there was something else as well, the same part of the darkness that had gripped his soul when he attacked the other man. He _liked_ it. He _liked_ seeing Jennings finally suffer at least part of the way he deserved to, liked having him close at hand to vent his rage on, to lay another few thumpings on if the drugs weren't completely effective. He knew he had to struggle against it, that that way lay madness, or at least a very slippery slope, but he was still so bloody exhausted. Maybe just for a day. He'd object to it again tomorrow. Jesus, what a mess. What a bloody, bloody mess.

Regina's hand was still on his arm, and both of their eyes flickered to it, as if waiting for her to let go. She loosened her grip, but her fingers ghosted over his sleeve. "Liam," she said, almost as if she hadn't quite meant to, but couldn't stop herself. "I _was_ trying to – "

"I don't care." Liam raked his loosened hair out of his face and tied it back with the ribbon. He did need to cut it short, the way Killian had, and he was unable to repress a brief, scared thought of how much else like Captain Hook he might be turning into. "You did what you thought you had to. Very well, he's your responsibility now. Take the animal to the brig and get the coordinates for the Spanish wreck site out of him. Make sure he's chained up and that he stays that way. I assume his men will be following us with the _Bathsheba,_ so it will be made very clear that their captain's life depends on their compliance with my orders. No second chances or further warnings will be given. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Captain." For once, the title didn't hold the faint edge of mockery that Regina normally infused it with. She looked at him intently, then nodded. "As you command."

Rather to Liam's astonishment, that was exactly what happened. They stole out of Boston Harbor under cover of night, the _Bathsheba_ in escort; she was still badly damaged from the dual vigorous efforts of Sam Bellamy and David Nolan, and lagged well behind as they charted a course out toward the white-capped waters of the North Atlantic. Liam kept looking over his shoulder, expecting and half-hoping to see Nolan pursuing them in the _Windsor,_ but as Regina said she had sent him all the way to Lexington, several hours' ride outside the city and back, he probably hadn't even realized that Jennings was gone yet, much less who had taken him and where. Perhaps Nolan would think that he had broken himself out, with help from his crew, or perhaps he would simply have to face the fact that there were no good men in the world, no worthy heroes, and that everything he had admired in Liam was a hollow and contemptible lie. _I've already lost Killian's respect, what's his as well?_

Following the coordinates that Regina had finagled out of Jennings, they headed south as fast as they could run, only slowing their pace to give the _Bathsheba_ time to catch up. As long as its captain was held in irons aboard the _Jewel,_ they couldn't stray too far, and it did seem that Jennings' men were genuinely devoted to him – well, if they could always rely on a fat payday, that might explain it. But Liam certainly didn't feel comfortable taking his eyes off them for long. They had no reason to think well of him, and might decide to try opening fire, disabling the ship, and absconding with the captive, leaving the _Jewel_ to founder and sink.

However, they made it without any such sneak attacks, and on the night before they were due to reach the wrecks, Jennings was hauled out of the brig, allowed to make himself presentable, and prepare to take them in. A week of drugging and drinking had made him almost amiable, his eyes bloodshot and his cheeks furred with heavy blonde stubble, and he staggered like a tavern drunk as he emerged above, slinging his arm around Liam's shoulder. "L – look at us, Cap'n. Almost gettin' along, wouldntcha say?"

Liam shoved him off without a word. They had drawn in and dropped anchor in a sheltered cove, the _Bathsheba_ only a few hundred yards away, and he had set extra watches, in case Jennings' men staged a rescue operation in the night. A longboat was allowed to come over with fresh clothes and provisions for the captain, and Liam eyed the newcomers coldly as they clambered on board, especially one tall dark-haired stripling who was looking at him as if he was the Devil Incarnate (ironic, considering the man he sailed under). Something about him kept grabbing at Liam like small claws, cold fingernails skittering down his spine, until he finally turned on him and said curtly, "If you're trying to kill me, lad, it generally takes a blade, not a stare. Though I don't advise you to try it, in either case."

"Maybe I will." The boy glared back at him. He couldn't be more than eighteen or so, thick dark hair and blue eyes, pointed chin, faint smatter of freckles, until Liam had the heart-rending illusion of staring at Killian's ghost, another lost boy who had grown up shiftless and adrift, finding a place to belong in the coterie of the Caribbean's most vicious mercenary captain. "Captain Jennings is a great man, and he doesn't deserve what you're doing to him."

" _Doesn't deserve?"_ Liam barked an incredulous laugh. "He's Jesus Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane and I'm somehow Judas, is that it? How on earth do you work that one out?"

"He took me in. Gave me a job, good money, a place to belong. Adventure, fame, fortune. Just because you're bloody obsessed with your stupid _honor –"_

Liam bit his tongue, reminding himself that it did not behoove him to get into a pissing contest with a green stripling. He was well aware that charismatic and influential men, giving lonely boys a place to belong and feel valued, were easily able to make them do whatever he asked of them – even if it was, to the rest of the world, unthinkable. "Shut it, lad," he said wearily. "I'm not your enemy, and nor am I interested in arguing with you about this. Even if your human stain of a captain is far from the person you seem to think – "

"Don't." The young man clenched his fists. "At least _he_ cares about me!"

"He probably doesn't know your fucking name. Shove off."

Liam took a step, only for the young man to reach out and grab his wrist, clearly not intending to let such insults to his hero stand unavenged. That was it, he was sick of it, and he whirled and punched him in the belly, once, quick, and deep, sending him reeling backwards and retching. He couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet, tall but skinny and gangling as a heron, and he gagged and gulped as Liam regarded him flatly. He was tempted to hit him again, but it wasn't sporting, and his point was made. "Walk it off and keep your mouth shut. Then we can avoid a repeat performance." He was about to make a pointed exit himself, but something – perhaps the boy's haunting evocation of a younger Killian – made him stop. Somewhat more gently, he said, "How'd you even end up with him, anyway?"

"There was – there was a fire. In Charlestown. Not long after my father and I arrived in the colonies." The young man didn't seem to want to answer, but some compulsion tore it out of him nonetheless. He wiped his mouth, regarding Liam balefully through his dark fringe. "We were separated. He never came back to find me. I did what I had to do."

"Your father left you? I – I can understand that." Liam remained standing, regarding his erstwhile opponent with something between anger and pity. "So no wonder you'd do whatever Jennings asked, if he gave you somewhere to belong. Afraid of being left behind again."

The young man blinked, confused and taken aback. "Yes," he said again, with somewhat less venom. "If you kill him, if you leave me with nowhere to go, I'll – "

"You can do far better than him, lad, trust me." Liam ran a weary hand through his curls. He'd seen more than a few shoots of grey in the looking glass this morning, until he wondered if he'd be an aged old geezer in his rocking chair by the time this was through. Assuming he even survived, that was. "But no matter what happens, I'll see to it you're provided for, as long as you don't try anything else stupid. Fair accord?"

The young man kept staring at him mulishly, but after a long moment, lowered his eyes and nodded once.

"Good. I'll expect you to keep to it." Liam started to leave again, but once more stopped. Softly he said, "What's your name?"

Those blue eyes came up again, locking challengingly onto his. Something cold passed over him then, a goose walking on his grave, even before the boy opened his mouth. Even before he said, softer still, without a blink, without turning away, "Liam Jones."

* * *

Killian didn't think of anything on the long, moonlit headlong rush out of Nassau. Nothing but how far he could get away – the Cape Horn gambit was once more beginning to sound like an attractive option – and how he could possibly forget. But he couldn't. He kept thinking he must have finally hit bottom, that there was no further place to fall, and yet it kept ripping out from under him. _Or rather, I rip it out my-bloody-self._ Nobody could forgive him now. Nobody should even be expected to. Not now, not after – the way the blade had felt, going in – twisting it, wanting to take it back, wanting to jerk it out – _don't leave me, don't leave me –_ and instead, had saw to it that his father left for good. _No. Please, no. Please. Please. Please._

He tried to put together a coherent plan, but it kept slipping away from him. He had vowed himself to destroying Gold and Jennings, and that was what he had to do, but where in damnation did he even start? Antigua? Go back to Antigua? Hope they were sitting there unawares like ripe fruit to be plucked from the branch? Fat bloody chance. They were most likely rebuilding it into an impregnable fortress, hoping he'd have the hubris to sail right up and think he could scythe them down again without breaking a sweat. Had to start collecting allies. Flint? Flint hated him, probably, but at least marginally less than everyone else. And he'd certainly be game for kicking the Navy's teeth down their throat, if he could be persuaded of the feasibility of the endeavor. Killian wanted to see Flint again, for no good reason. Flint understood him. Enough to kill him most efficiently, yes, but he did. Flint would, if nothing else, not judge him for what he'd done. _Even if I bloody well deserve it._

They sailed all night without much of a course in mind, just trying to put distance between themselves and New Providence Island. He wondered if he'd ever be able to set foot there again without his father's bloodstained shade looming over him. _I'll be dead myself soon, most likely._ It was comforting to think of it that way. A reward at the end of the fighting. A rest.

It was a few hours past dawn, the sky red and sticky and sullen in the way that usually augured bad weather later, when the lookout shouted down that he'd spotted a ship. It was a merchanter, a two-masted slubber of a cog, lightly armed and not particularly fast, laboring against the wind – in short, a perfect tempting target. Hook surveyed it through the glass, turned away with a feral grin, and ordered, "Take her. No quarter."

They ran out the guns, riding up fast on their target's sterncastle, as the other vessel came alive with distant shouts of alarm. Clearly realizing how badly they were outmatched and that any fight was going to blow them to smithereens, the merchant captain put up a white flag, signaling his desire to surrender without a shot fired and negotiate his way out of this – losing his cargo was preferable to losing his life. What a shame for him, then, that Hook was not feeling in a merciful mood. When his men glanced at him to see if they would accept the parlay, he bared his teeth instead. "What part of _no quarter_ do you pox-ridden scurvy pukes not understand?"

There was a respectable roar, someone went to run up the black, and the first volleys opened fire, strafing the merchant ship's bow with flashes and booms. She must have had a better helmsman than one would give her credit for, because she managed to duck a head-on impact that probably would have sunk her within minutes. Hook did not in fact want her sunk, as that would render it impossible to ransack her holds for whatever goods and valuables she might be carrying, and barked at the gunners to disable, not destroy. Thick smoke billowed across the bloody dawn, the _Jolie Rouge_ bearing down like a predator on helpless prey, the wolf before the already-crippled sheep. Another few instants, and they were closing, closing, closing, and the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of musket fire hissed and pinged on the boards as the merchantmen made a final desperate attempt at repelling them. Much too little, much too late. "BOARD HER!"

The smoky air turned full of swinging, yelling shapes as the pirates seized ropes, hurtled across, and landed on the deck of the other ship, cutlasses and sabers clanging against whatever bits of steel the merchant sailors had to hand. It was a much more awkward affair for Hook, as he had only one hand to hold with, but he did not intend to miss the fun, and tangled the hook fiercely in the rope, swinging out over the rough sea, landing with a thump, drawing his sword, and stabbing through the gut the first man who aimed a pistol at him. Someone else followed it up with a butcher knife, and he parried, deflected, slashed, killed that bugger too, and shoved through the brawls and turmoil toward the passenger cabin. If anyone of interest was aboard, their ransom might end up being worth more than the rest of the movable goods.

He slammed the door down with a crunch of breaking boards, and stepped inside, sword out, at a slow, deliberate advance. "Come out," he drawled. "Come out and play, why don't you?"

"Get out of here, pirate." Something – somebody – moved in the shadows. It was a young man's voice who spoke, and the next instant, Hook could just make him out. A tall, thin, blonde-haired boy in a well-worn waistcoat and neckerchief, buckled shoes – a student, not a soldier, aiming a heavy pistol at him with trembling hands. "Before I blow your brains all over the floor."

"Oh, you're going to, are you? Fine then, give it a try. I'm the worst human alive, it might be fun for you." Hook leered at him, spreading his arms. "That what you want to be? A killer? It's a lark, believe me. No regrets at all. Go on! Shoot me!"

"I will!" The young man struggled to keep the muzzle trained on his head, even as his big green eyes were fixed with terror. Something – what was it? – almost familiar. "Get out!"

"Come on, Charlie!" another voice whispered. A younger one, a boy's. Hiding on the bed, watching in mesmerized, horrified fascination. "Shoot him!"

"Another one, is there? Setting an example for your little brother? I know how important that is!" Hook laughed maniacally. "Too bad it's a lie, isn't it? Just like my brother's! All a lie!"

"He's my nephew." The barrel of the gun dipped slightly, before the young man – Charlie, evidently – recovered himself. "And I said, get out!"

"No. You shoot me first."

The young man's eyes were huge, trying to work out what kind of insane bluff this was. It was plain enough that he very much did not want to, but also did not want Hook to come any closer. Something, some dull curiosity, pricked at him, long enough for him to decide to sheathe his sword, turning toward them. "The fuck are you two doing out here by yourselves, anyway?"

"We're from W-Williamsburg." Charlie's thin throat wobbled as he swallowed. "Virginia. My sister owns part share of a plantation in Jamaica, and we. . . we haven't heard from her in a while, haven't received the money she usually sends us. So we decided to set sail ourselves and find her. And now – " He remembered who he was talking to, and visibly shrank. "Now I suppose we won't."

"Oh?" Hook rubbed his ringed fingers across his eyes, smearing the black kohl he had begun to wear on a regular basis. "Not much left on Jamaica, I'm afraid. Also thanks to me. Who's your fucking sister, anyway? Who are _you?"_

The young man hesitated for a long moment, then clearly decided he didn't have much else to lose anyway. "My name is Charles," he said. "Charles Swan. This is my nephew, Henry. And my sister is Emma. Emma Swan."


	23. XXIII

**-XXIII-**

Emma was roused from a shallow, murky dream of trees, of being lost in an endless forest and unable to find her way back to the sea, by the sound of insistent knocking on the door. She rolled over groggily, sliding on Sam's slippery silken sheets, as Sam himself, bunked down on the davenport as usual, sat up with a muffled expletive. The great twelve-hour glass on his desk, which he had turned when they went to sleep, was barely halfway through its run, so it couldn't be later than about six in the morning. "Bloody hell is it?" he shouted. "Better be important!"

"Captain." The door opened, and Paulsgrave Williams stuck his head inside. "Sails, coming from the southeast. Either it's more pirates, or it's Spanish reinforcements for the _guardas_ already here. And we're anchored here, most of the men still asleep, like a sitting duck."

Bellamy rubbed a hand over his black stubble, grabbed his shirt, and shrugged it on, preparing to leap into action. Off Emma's look, he said, "No chance it's our expeditionary party, then?"

"No, Captain. Much too large for the launch. Full-rigger, too far as yet to see her colors. If she's a fellow pirate, we can plan an attack on the camp together, but if it's the _guardas costas –_ "

"That, obviously, would be a massive steaming shit on everyone's fun," Bellamy completed, buckling on his swordbelt. "Could be we can negotiate. I speak a fair bit of Spanish – mostly not fit for civilized ears, admittedly – but even the heaviest-armed vessels on the _guardas_ run about twenty-five or thirty guns, and we've got thirty-six, plus the dozen-odd more for ballast in the hold, which could be wrangled into service in a pinch. They rely on their fearsome reputation to avoid open firefights, so if it comes to that, perhaps we can turn the tables and catch the Popish blaggards on the hop. Rouse the crew."

Williams nodded and scuttled out of the cabin to do as ordered, and Emma scrambled out of bed. "Sam, I'm coming too."

"All right, but be careful. If it does end up in shooting, get below and stay there."

"I can fight, you know that."

"Yes, but right now, you don't have to. And if it does go bad, you can pretend you're the helpless damsel carried off by brutal pirates, and the Spanish will be certain to spare you. Bit more difficult to convince them of your innocence if you're up there chopping their ugly mugs off, much as said mugs might be improved with chopping. Promise me, all right?"

"Sam, nothing's going to happen to you." Emma reached convulsively for his hand. "And if anything does, I – I don't want to be alone. You to be alone."

He looked at her, then nodded, tossing her an extra bandolier and one of his pistols. "Don't worry. If it was another one of the _guardas,_ it would be much more likely to be coming from the southwest, Havana, rather than out in the Atlantic. But it never hurts to be prepared."

"So. . ." Emma strapped on the bandolier and slung a cavalry saber through the strap. "It's foolish hoping we'll see Brennan Jones any time soon, isn't it?"

"Possibly," Bellamy said. "But that's what hope is for. Now come on, love, let's go deal with it."

Emma pulled on her boots and jacket, following him out of the cabin and onto the deck of the _Whydah._ Sam's well-trained crew already had the anchor up, the lanterns lit, and the guns loaded, as they scaled the shrouds and began loosening canvas to catch the dawn breeze. Sam himself took the helm, steering them quickly away from the shoreline shoals and in a direct path toward the other ship. Emma's heart was in her mouth as they approached – until she and Sam recognized it at the same time, and their jaws dropped. Far from their fears about wrathful Spanish agents or apocalyptic sea battles, it was as close to being happy to see the bloody old _Walrus_ as she could ever remember.

Sam shouted at his men to stand down, as they drew in close enough for conversation and Emma's eyes anxiously swept the pirates on deck, looking for Will, Miranda, Macintosh, Merida, or the Darlings. She didn't see any of them, leaving her unsure if Flint's rescue mission had worked or not – surely he wouldn't be back here if he had left any such business undone in Boston? Then Flint himself vaulted into the forecastle, looking them up and down with sardonic disbelief. "Really," he said. "We sent them off to find that idiot so he could find you, and after all that fuss and bother, you're here all along? That's just fucking brilliant."

"What? Sent who? Where's Miranda? Is she all right?"

"Aye, she's fine," Flint said, somewhat more gently. "I got her back from that feculent pustule Jennings, believe me. And your two Scots are on board, likely fucking belowdecks, as they've been doing for most of the voyage. I have the rest of the survivors as well. But Miranda and that other idiot of yours, Scarlet, left us a few days ago, trying to track down our regrettably mutual acquaintance, Captain Hook. They have reason to believe he's in Nassau. As I said, everyone could avoid a great deal of time, effort, and calamity if you two would just run into each other again, for whatever baffling reason you want to. Between you and me, he's not worth it."

"He – is?" Emma struggled to keep her face implacable. They had, after all, sent Brennan there, and if Miranda had gone to look for him, taking Will with her, they could be embroiled in the middle of a suddenly explosive situation. "But you're back here?"

Flint snorted. "Of course I am. And I see my reliable and sane ally is even here too – " he saluted elaborately at Bellamy – "so let's get on with collecting treasure, shall we? And fast. Charles bloody Vane is hot on our arses, again no thanks to the handless wonder, so we'd best take as good a cut we can before he gets here. That wild pussycat of his, Anne Bonny, took Will and Miranda to Nassau for whatever mysterious reason, so we can be quite sure it's nothing but halfwits left aboard. And I am _not_ losing my Spanish gold to them."

Emma only understood bits and pieces of this explanation, aside from the fact that Flint still hated everyone (which was hardly surprising) and wanted to reestablish his working relationship with Bellamy, which had gone much better than his short-lived alliance of necessity with Hook. She was burning to ask him more, about how they knew Hook was in Nassau, about why exactly Miranda had decided to risk going after him, if they were coming back, if Will knew what had happened, but Flint would not see any value in shooting the breeze about such irrelevancies when so much wealth remained in such tempting reach nearby. For that matter, Sam himself clearly saw no reason to stall, as he certainly had not merely arrived at the wrecks to admire them. "Well," he said. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

The _Walrus_ and the _Whydah_ moved in, Flint and Bellamy continuing to exchange shouted bits of strategy. One of them had to distract the Spanish warship at anchor just down the coast; they couldn't see them for the moment, hidden by the broken rocks and sandbanks of the estuary, but as soon as they moved out of cover, the alarm would be raised. The other one had to lead the assault on the beach and thus take charge of actually acquiring the treasure. There was some haggling over whose job was whose, but in the end, it was not felt necessary to meddle with success. Flint had already done the raid bit once before, Bellamy likewise was very good at distracting anybody with a functional set of eyeballs and a pulse, and it played quite nicely into their respective strengths – his the honey, and Flint's the vinegar.

With this decided, it would be wisest to wait for dark, but it was still barely dawn, and if they came out of the east with the rising sun at their backs, it would admirably compensate for the disadvantage. As well, Flint had absolutely no interest in sitting on his hands for the entire day, just handing Charles Vane all the time he needed to catch up. He liked Bellamy or at least he could work with him, he'd been waiting more than bloody long enough already, and the Spanish had to have some clue that there had been several pirate vessels recently arriving in the area. They'd risk the daylight assault.

That was how, shortly thereafter, the _Whydah_ was sailing down the coast directly into the line of sight of the Spanish warship. Emma clutched Sam's arm until her knuckles went white and said, far from the first time, "Are you _sure_ this is going to work?"

"No," Sam admitted. "But it wouldn't be much fun if we knew, would it?"

Emma shook her head, on pins and needles as the gunports on the other vessel rattled open, even as the _Whydah's_ men remained unarmed, looking as if they had no cares in the world. They were definitely close enough by now for the Spanish ship to start lighting them up if they saw something they disliked, but if nothing else, curiosity got the better of them. They had no idea why this large, well-armed ship would be larking up with such a friendly air and no apparent intention to engage, and as they drew within hailing range, a thoroughly befuddled Spanish voice called, _"Quiero hablar con el capitán."_

" _Soy yo."_ Bellamy spread his hands, with a wide, fetching grin. With that, he switched into Spanish, too fast for Emma to follow, though by the scandalized look on the other man's face, she hoped Sam hadn't accidentally called his mother a whore. She had no idea what he was trying to sell, but he gestured to Mr. Williams, who vanished below, returned with a stout hogshead, and by means of rope and pulley, had the men convey it from the _Whydah_ to the Spanish ship (whose name seemed to be _Nuestra Señora Santa María de la_ _Asunción_ , or just _Asunción_ for short). The Spanish captain tapped it cautiously, as if expecting live scorpions to spring out, but instead it trickled a rich golden liquid. He caught it in a cup, took a sip, and got the startled expression of someone whose life had just changed before his eyes.

" _Es bueno, mi amigo?"_ Sam nodded encouragingly, as Emma was left to consider just how appropriate the name of his ship actually was. A whydah was a small species of bird native to Africa, the male of which had long, beautiful black tailfeathers (rather like Sam's glossy black locks, of which he was vastly proud) and which laid its eggs in other birds' nests, rather like the cuckoo, tricking its rivals into doing its work for it. It was just like him to tempt the crew of the _Asunción_ with all the delicious drink they hadn't had in months (working aboard a Spanish warship was a severe and spartan existence) and which he was in fact now doing, having his crew rope over several more casks. The Spanish captain might not have planned to share with his men, but he was also well aware that trying to stop them from it, when it was sitting right there on the deck in front of them and he had already had a taste, would not be one of the more pleasant hours of his command. Besides, they hadn't seen the _Walrus;_ they didn't know that there was a second pirate ship lying in wait. _Balls of brass indeed._

It did not take long for the captain to invite Sam and Emma over to visit, in the name of returning their hospitality, and while they did not want to get stuck aboard the enemy ship if things suddenly went sideways, they were unable to think of a way to refuse without piquing his suspicions. So they stepped onto the _Asunción,_ as Bellamy pulled coins and jewels from various pockets and handed them to the crew (they were not the most well-paid individuals in the world either) asked after _madres, esposas y novias_ , and seemed perfectly happy to actually listen to the answers. Emma spoke a little Spanish, as everyone who spent any time in the Caribbean had to, and to her astonishment, began to realize that she was genuinely enjoying herself. Bellamy was doing for these overworked, hot, bored, tired Spaniards what he had done for her: lavishing them with the milk of human attention and interest and kindness, laughing as Juan told him a long and (apparently) uproariously funny story about a fat whore named Maria in Madrid, sympathizing as Miguel complained about how much he hated the damnable place and wanted to go home, and giving Angelo an extra silver penny because he wanted to buy his daughter a saints-day present. Of course all the while, plenty of fine rum was imbibed, with the _Whydah's_ men happy to make up the lack any time they ran low. It wasn't long until the Spaniards were quite thoroughly uninterested in giving a damn about whatever might be happening on the beach, and Emma was feeling absurdly guilty about tricking them. This was the most fun these men had had in years, and it was all for a lie that was going to land them in absolute hell when they were blamed for it.

Bellamy, sensing that their work was done, made graceful excuses, they left the remaining rum as a goodwill gift, and headed back to the _Whydah._ They were just backing water, as the sun was well up and the wind was slack beneath the burning white sky, when they spotted the dust rising from the scuffle ashore, heard the distinctive crack of gunshots, and saw small masked figures veering this way and that among the chaos. By the looks of things, Flint had almost the entire crew of the _Walrus_ on the beach – over a hundred men, rather than the dozen-odd raiding party of last time. There was quite a lot of shouting and shooting and scuttling going on, but it was impossible to say how much of it had translated into an actual cash grab.

The Spanish captain cottoned on too late what was happening, threw a searingly betrayed look at Sam and Emma, and screamed what was clearly a command for his men to get to their stations, but not many of them seemed interested in doing so. Juan actually waved at Sam, who yelled back something about Maria the fat whore, and Emma was left with the overwhelming impression that if they crossed paths in the future, they would laugh and buy each other a drink, sooner than shoot each other just because (in Juan's case, at least) his captain ordered him by the sovereign authority of the Pope and King Philip to do so. It was truly remarkable.

Nonetheless, and unfortunately, there were still enough men with a sense of duty to Church and Crown to do as ordered, possibly also feeling a bit personally gypped by the whole thing. The _Asunción_ was awkwardly positioned for combat – her bow chasers were too far forward, her starboard battery would only inflict glancing damage, and the _Whydah_ was much larger than the small skiffs and sloops-of-war that the _guardas costas_ usually did battle with. In that crucial moment, Bellamy raised his voice. "TAKE OUT THE MIZZEN!"

His men, un-befuddled by drink, hopped to, as the _Asunción_ managed to get off a shot, but it fell just short, exploding by the bow in a plume of spray. A brief and intense exchange of gunfire followed, both ships forced to take evasive action, until a screaming chain shot whirled overhead, there was a terrific crack, and the _Asunción's_ mizzenmast split, teetered, and thundered down, taking the full rig of its sails with it. The Spanish ship was comprehensively disabled, couldn't chase or pursue or do anything to stop Flint's raid on the beach aside from launch soldiers in longboats, and as they were quite a way out, the action might be done by the time they got there. It hadn't cost unnecessary lives, was neat and simple and stylish, and as usual, might have the survivors announcing that they had been attacked by Black Sam Bellamy once, and it was awesome. Truly, a prince among pirates.

Emma bit a grin, turning toward him. It was then that her heart skipped a beat, and she ran across the deck. "Sam, you're bleeding."

"What?" Bellamy was still chortling over the success of his stratagem, and paying no heed whatsoever to the slowly spreading red stain on his right shoulder. Then he looked down, and an annoyed frown replaced his jubilation. "Fuck. That's aggravating."

" _Aggravating?"_ Emma was trying very hard not to overreact, but she was not about to take any chances. "Let me see that. Now."

Bellamy glanced around at his crew, who were likewise enjoying their triumph, and hadn't noticed anything amiss with their captain; the blood was hard to make out against the black velvet of his coat, anyway. "Aye, then, if it'll ease your mind," he said, nodding her after him into the cool dimness of the cabin. "It's probably just a scratch."

Despite this bravado, when Emma peeled away the coat and shirt, it was quite a bit more than a scratch: a huge splinter had sheared off the _Asunción's_ breaking mast and ripped a hole in him from shoulder to solar plexus. It hadn't lodged in the flesh, but it still gave her an unpleasant memory of Liam's wound during the hurricane, and it was bleeding a lot. Bellamy hissed when she touched it, belying his careless demeanor, and it was deep enough in the meat for her to see the torn, fibrous edges of muscle. "Sam, this is bad. We need to find a surgeon to treat this. Who do you have aboard?"

"Not really one as would qualify as such," Bellamy admitted. "Fellow who's handy with the bone saw, if the need arises. Pulls teeth and lances boils, but much else would be beyond him."

"No, I'm not having some hack paw all over you with filthy hands and have it turn gangrenous." Emma regarded him grimly, reeling through her options. She was about to suggest the inestimable Farquhar Buzzard, on Eleuthera – that wasn't too far from here, not much further than Nassau at least – before she remembered that he would certainly never agree to treat a pirate. Flint didn't have anybody better qualified on the _Walrus_ , and Sam – no, Sam had taken her in and cared for her and protected her, Sam was her _friend,_ and she was not losing him to some stupid, avoidable mistake, some slovenly, filthy treatment. In that, then, she suddenly realized who her best option was: the man who had tended Liam directly after _his_ wound, and kept him together long enough to reach Eleuthera. Archibald Hopper, surgeon's mate on HMS _Imperator,_ now turned _Jolie Rouge._ The same one, of course, captained by the man she had been trying to fumble her way back toward, all this time.

"What?" Sam said, seeing her face. "Think of something?"

"Actually, yes," Emma said carefully. "It so happens that Kil – that Hook has quite a good surgeon on his ship. Man by the name of Hopper."

"Ah." Bellamy, obviously, grasped the potential implications as well as she did. "You're sure you'd just want to up and sail off, though? Flint would get first pick of the treasure, and – "

"Fuck the treasure," Emma said fiercely. "And Flint also said that Hook is, or was, in Nassau. We can get you to Hopper, intercept Brennan Jones if it's not too late, and I can. . ." She swallowed. "Well, anyway. Sam, you. . . you saved me. Please let me do the same for you."

Bellamy regarded her with a wry smile. He didn't bother telling her that it wasn't that bad; they both had eyes, they knew it was. Even in the few minutes they had been sitting here, his shirt had crusted and reddened with blood, and he was starting to look slightly lightheaded. Emma fetched some gauze and lint, folded and packed them and tied them tightly into place with clean rags, which stemmed the tide somewhat, but it was clearly no more than a temporary fix. "Very well," he said, when she was finished. "Go find Williams and make your plans. Until I recover, you're in command of the _Whydah,_ Captain Swan."

Emma was jolted, tempted to ask if he meant it, if he was sure he really wanted to entrust her with the honor – her, instead of one of his own men, someone more worthy? But he was looking at her intently, and she didn't want to waste time. She nodded, turned on her heel, and went out.

She tracked down the first mate, tersely informed him of the situation, and he went in turn to tell the others, as non-alarmingly as possible. As the news spread, dampening the giddiness at their successful handling of the _Asunción,_ nobody objected too much to the idea of possibly passing up the score in favor of getting Bellamy proper care; he, after all, was loved by his crew in a way that very few captains of any breed ever were. However, they weren't willing to relinquish it entirely, so another dozen men were appointed to take the boat and head to the _Walrus,_ to make sure Flint didn't get too many ideas about keeping it all for himself. The _Whydah_ itself, with Emma as interim captain, was to sail straight for Nassau, track down the _Jolie Rouge_ if at all possible, and engage Hopper's services by whatever methods necessary.

Emma had to busy herself in the familiar routine of getting a ship prepared to sail, because thinking about anything would be too much. Aside from everything else, she was also aware that Sam had deliberately planned to stay well away from Nassau, and being forced there now, even with no other options, was not a decision to be taken lightly. She might have to use whatever influence she still had to keep the sharks off his scent, especially in his current wounded and vulnerable state. And if the _Jolie Rouge_ wasn't there, far from the question of whether she was going to see Killian again, Sam's survival became quite a bit less likely.

She pressed her lips into a grim line, doing her best to quash the discordant voices in her head. She touched the slight swell of her belly, for luck; it was getting somewhat easier to think of it as a companion, a fellow traveler, rather than a stranger and an intrusion. But never mind that, never mind everyone. Emma had had her time to rest and recover, but Captain Swan was needed back now. Far too much hung in the balance for any distractions.

She gave the command, and they began to sail.

* * *

"I'm sorry." Liam, to say the least, had had far too many unpleasant surprises recently, and he was not in the mood for another. It could, of course, be just some sort of demented coincidence, but after he had already remarked how much the lad reminded him of Killian, it was a very demented one indeed if so. "Did you say – ?"

"Liam Jones." The boy looked at him truculently. "Why?"

"It's only." Oh Christ, he didn't want to pull too hard at this particular mystery, and yet he was helpless to resist. "That's my name as well. Liam Jones. Where were you born?"

"Le Havre. On Saint Columba's day, 1698." Liam Jones the younger paused, then glared at him, as if blaming him for tricking him into answering. "The devil concern of it is yours?"

"Le Havre?" Liam's heart was starting to pound. "So you're French? Columba, though, that's an Irish saint. Was one of your parents – "

"My mother was French," Liam Junior said grudgingly. "My father, though, he was Irish."

 _1698._ Three years after they had been sold on the _Pandora._ What the – what the _bloody –_ had Brennan Jones run to safe harbor in France, as they certainly would have been happy to shield an Irish Catholic from their English Protestant mutual enemies? Settled down? Remarried? Gone on living his life, free as a bird, while they were toiling in desperate bondage? Started a new family, and never once looked back? And then in turn, done the same to this new son? Left him to fall into the clutches of the darkness, and the cycle to repeat all over again?

Liam took a deep, gulping breath, trying to tell himself that it wasn't, but he already knew damn well that it was. "And by chance, was your father's name Brennan?"

Liam Junior stared at him. "How the bloody hell did you – "

"Because." For half a moment , he debated lying to him – though what on earth he'd say, he had no idea. Anything to varnish the cold, hard, ugly truth. "He was my father as well. And he did the same thing to me and my – our – brother, Killian, as he did to you."

This, as might be expected, was enough to shut the poor boy down on the spot. He opened and shut his mouth, raised a hand, dropped it, and finally managed a faint sputtering sound. "You," he said. "You're – no, you're not. Papa never said anything about having any other sons. He – "

"He never mentioned where your name came from?" Liam had to struggle not to snap at him, reminding himself that the lad was as much blameless as they had been, another damaged legacy of their father's utter failure. "That it was mine? That you had two elder brothers, and he left them behind? No, that he _sold them into slavery to buy his own freedom?_ " He could see how Brennan might not be eager to spill _that_ uncomfortable bit of information to a young boy, but it made him so bloody angry that he almost couldn't breathe.

"Should he have?" Liam Junior stuck his chin out. "You didn't come to find me either!"

"I didn't know you existed!" The crew was starting to look at them oddly, and Liam forced his voice back down to a hiss. "We didn't even know he was still alive! If I had – I would have looked for you. But I didn't, and well. . . we can make up for lost time now, if that's what you want." He tried to speak gently, as he would with Killian, even as he was unable to repress the thought that this was what Killian would have become without him, left on his own with no buffer against his darker impulses, his fragility, his fury, his betrayal, his heartbreak. "I'm willing to be friends, allies. If you could tell me what you know about Jennings and – "

"Oh, so that's what this is about? You don't actually want to care about me, you just want to twist my arm for information on the man who does!" Liam Junior reared back like a startled serpent. "Well then, you can forget about it. I'm not interested in more lies and – "

"It's not a lie. I'm your bloody half-brother, and I know exactly how you feel, because I've been there myself, and unless our father _also_ sold you into slavery – "

"No. Like I said, there was a fire, in Charlestown. He just. . . didn't come back." Liam Junior hunched his shoulders. "I fended for myself. I joined Captain Jennings' crew a few years ago. He gave me everything I have. If you hurt him, I'll kill you."

Despite himself, Liam flinched. He knew better than to question that tone of voice, as it was exactly the one he himself had had when warning Emma of his intentions to do the same if she hurt Killian. _This one didn't have me as an older brother, so he got Jennings instead. Bloody hell, when I thought he was the worst part of me, I didn't mean it to be quite so fucking literally!_

"Look, lad," he said instead. "I'll respect that you've survived because of him, but he's a – he's not a good man. He's done terrible things to both of us, Killian and I. He cut off Killian's _hand,_ and he made me watch. We both want vengeance. I don't want you in the way, and as I said, I'll take care of you the best I can. But if the time comes when the choice must be made – we're your _brothers,_ surely that counts for more than – "

"No, it doesn't." Liam Junior looked at him with icy blue eyes. "I don't care about either of you, I don't know a thing about you. We're just related by happenstance. Jennings and his men are my family. You're not. Don't count on an accident and a lie to protect you, because it won't."

That rocked Liam onto his heels. He had already been half-thinking that he could take this vulnerable lad under his wing, care for him in the way he couldn't care for Killian anymore, try to fix what little of the damage he could. But even in these few minutes, Liam Junior had shattered any tender illusion that he would be content to act as Killian's replacement, or that he wanted a relationship with his abruptly discovered family. Liam couldn't blame him, much; nobody would want to accept that their father had done something even worse than abandonment to a pair of sons before you, that you had now been thrown together in the worst and most unexpected of circumstances, and that you might have to lose the surrogate father you had clung to instead, despite his personal moral decrepitude. But in Liam's world, there was nothing more important than the love he and his brother had shared and survived because of for so long, and he had assumed that of course Liam Junior must want that, would be open to its offer. Yet if he had never had it, and indeed resented Killian and Liam even more for at least having had each other, of course it would seem like rubbing salt in the wound. _Dear God, Papa_. _What the fuck did you do to us, to all of us? You bastard. You selfish, spineless, fucking, bleeding bastard._

Aloud, Liam said, "Very well. I'm glad you've made your position clear. So you know, you can always change your mind, and I'll think no less of you for it. But if our accidental blood relation won't protect us from you, nor will it protect you from me. Consider that carefully."

Liam Junior gave him a long, chilling look, the sort of look a man gave you when he was wondering where your weak spots were, where the knife might most easily slip between the ribs, how deeply you slept and whether you took wine before you did. In his nearly ten years as captain of the _Imperator_ , Liam hadn't had to deal with any sustained and serious attempts to challenge him or cut him down, but there _had_ been moments where he was aware that if he stepped wrongly, overplayed his hand or threw his weight too hard, he would pay the highest of prices. It had mostly been in the early days, when his crew didn't know how to deal with the fact that he didn't punish them the same as other captains, had tried to test the leash, supposed he was weak or without the stomach for command, and had investigated just how much they could get away with. They had not made the same mistake twice, and nor did it happen much as they grew to know and respect him. But not everyone had lived to see those days. Some had been marched off to the Admiralty and brought up on formal charges of insubordination. Others Liam had dealt with himself, away from prying eyes in the pitch darkness deep belowdecks, heaved the body through the hatch, and let the men draw their own conclusions. He didn't, he couldn't, he did not want to consider doing the same to a brother, even one as determined to reject him as this wild, angry, dangerous boy, but if nothing else, he had learned at utter and bruising cost not to underestimate the depths of the darkness that ran in the Jones men.

With another look at him, Liam Junior jumped to his feet at a shout from another of Jennings' crew and hurried off to assist, leaving Liam feeling as if he had been hit very hard over the head with a vast succession of heavy objects. He was still staring after the boy when Regina, finished with whatever witchcraft she had been doing to ensure that Jennings followed her orders, appeared by the capstan. Whatever look was on his face, it must have been truly spectacular. "Liam, what happened? Who on earth was that?"

"You. . . probably wouldn't believe me if I told you." He was less certain than ever about the wisdom of this. If she had never forced his hand on taking Jennings aboard, he would never have met his half-brother or known that he existed, but given the scale of the grudge that said half-brother clearly bore him, as well as unadulterated hero-worship for their most dangerous enemy, this was far from a touching or serendipitous family reunion. _I'd best sleep with one eye open until he's off my ship._ Nonetheless, mostly because he wanted someone to inform him if this was in fact just a very strange and dark and unhappy dream, Liam did in fact tell her.

Even Regina had not seen that one coming. She looked as if she wanted to ask if he was pulling her leg, stopped only by the knowledge that when it came to his brothers, William Raleigh Jones definitively did not fuck around. "Your – " She stopped, shook her head, and had to start again. "Your much younger half-brother, who has the same name as you, who your father spawned after leaving you and Killian in the lurch and then also abandoned, is a devoted disciple of our friend, Mr. Jennings, and threatened to kill _you_ if you hurt him? Do I have this right?"

"Most unfortunately, yes." Liam kept staring at the opposite gunwale. "Have something clever to say to that, do you? Something about how you did me a favor after all?"

Regina, who had been opening her mouth likely to say something exactly along those lines, shut it with a click. Then she said, "Well, it's better that he ended up meeting you. This way he at least has a chance of tripping and hitting his head on some common sense, so – "

"What? You mean under my influence?" Liam looked at her sardonically. "Haven't you been saying this entire time that I'm barely any different from Jennings myself?"

Regina flushed. It was plain that she disliked being called out, but also that she had been caught squarely to rights, and she avoided his gaze. "I may have been mistaken," she said at last, evasively. "You are – I still don't know what you are, exactly, but you _are_ different. Anyone else would have had the sense to give up by now, but you. . . well, you're either a singularly devoted brother or a total damn fool. Pretend that Killian was dead, or that you accepted you couldn't do anything for him anymore. Do you even know what you want? What would you do with yourself, besides trying pointlessly to save him? That's all you've done for your entire life. Move on to trying to teach this new mongrel some manners instead? Or just give up and – "

"He's a boy, not a dog." Liam might have scant regard for his newfound half-sibling, but he still wasn't about to allow her to speak ill of him to his face. "One who had nearly as bad a lot in life as we did, and with no one else to share the burden."

"That's generous of you," Regina said. "But he hasn't, really. Aye, I'm sure being left behind by that no-good shitheel father of yours wasn't very enjoyable, and whatever else he had to do to survive, but he was raised by Brennan, likely more or less comfortably. Was never a slave, was never whipped or starved or abused, never left at the whim of tyrannical captains or any of it. He _hasn't_ gone through what you have. He's a lost boy, but he's not you. Unoriginality of name aside." She shrugged. "I know it's hard for you, actually bringing yourself to dislike a brother. With that one, though, I think you should. Don't even try. Just for a change."

"Oh, I'm sure that would make everything so much bloody better." Liam rubbed his greying temples, which indeed had not been nearly that color a few months ago. "He's a little shit, true, but just leaving him to run amok isn't about to – "

"Liam." Regina put a hand on his, startling him, as his eyes swung grudgingly toward her. "You have enough to manage and then some with _one_ brother, and that's the one you actually love and care about. This new one has already made his opinion of you very clear, so I'm telling you that for once, you don't have any obligation to parent him. He's no different from any other poor urchin Jennings picked up along the way, and you wouldn't waste time on any of those, so why do it for him? Just once. Try it. Be selfish. You'll fly apart otherwise."

Liam instinctively opened his mouth to protest, and she looked quite aggravated indeed; as she had found out the hard way at every turn, his stubbornness was almost literally the stuff of legend. As it was the only effective way to shut him up, or else she was challenging him yet again, she leaned in and kissed him.

He was so astonished that he nearly pushed her away, but wasn't about to back down from it, simply for the principle of the thing. His hand floated up, tangling in the loosened hair from her braids, and pulled her abruptly closer, as she uttered a startled sound through her nose and almost jerked back herself. But neither of them would be the first to lose anything, and as a result they were forced to keep kissing, and as his head turned and so did hers, her hands came up convulsively to cradle his face. There had been enough brewing tension and building sparks and belligerence and bickering and obstinacy between them to make for quite an explosive release, and they gave as good as they got long enough for the notable lack of breath to finally be the thing that broke them apart. Regina looked mildly stunned, and for once had nothing to say, but Liam could scarcely gloat over it, seeing as he was the same. They'd been right in bloody public too – not in the middle of the deck, but not exactly hidden in the cabin either – and he certainly did not intend to apply for a more intimate continuation. That had been a mistake. The very last thing he could afford, and with _her._ Without a word, he got to his feet and strode away.

They had nearly finished what preparations there were to be made – the plan was very simple, sail in and get what treasure they could, but more importantly, see who _else_ was there and if they knew anything about Killian – when an alarmed murmur went up from the crew on the stern. Liam wheeled around, convinced that his fears had been realized and the _Bathsheba_ was launching an attack, but the trouble, for once, did not lie with them. Instead, it was caused by the appearance of a slender black-hulled, black-sailed brigantine, still distant as yet but with the wind behind her, and closing fast. The _Jewel,_ Liam realized too late, looked like the world's stupidest merchant ship, blithely anchored just a dozen short miles outside the most coveted treasure-hunting site in the Caribbean, as if it was simply asking to get taken out by whatever pirate happened by next. They only had thirteen guns, most old enough that they were just as likely to blow themselves up as the enemy, and while the _Bathsheba_ had more, they were not about to lift a finger to defend the ship that had held their captain in durance vile for the last week. And so, if the newcomers had mischief on their minds – and judging from the looks of things, they very much did – there was, bloody _hell,_ only one way to get out of this.

Liam remained where he was for a moment longer, loathing the necessity with every particle of his being, but the pirate ship had just tried its first shot, the tiny _Jewel_ would take serious damage with any head-on strike, and he had a very bad feeling that he knew exactly who their opponent was. Only one pirate was said to use those distinctive black sails, who cultivated such terror at his mere appearance, and was not disposed to mercy after it, either. Charles bloody Vane.

With that, Liam spun on his heel, marched back to Regina, and shouted his orders at her. For once, she didn't argue, seeing as she would drown just as nicely as him if the _Jewel_ went down, or endure God knows what at the hands of Jennings' crew – a madam who made her living catering to the hated Royal Navy would be an irresistible target. She whirled as well, retrieved their unwanted guest, and said something that Liam couldn't make out. At any rate, as the _Ranger_ was bearing into position for a full salvo, Jennings climbed up into the forecastle and waved his arms, shouting across the water. "This ship is one of mine. Fire another ball, and I'll cram it down your throat so far that you'll be shitting grapeshot for a week."

That, to say the least, the pirates had not been expecting. Liam watched tensely, unable to repress a brief and terrible thought that Jennings wasn't as affected by the drugs as it appeared, and had craftily played himself into best position for revenge by pretending to be harmless. Regina was also watching edgily, as Liam had ordered her to make Jennings call off Vane and company, and obviously if it did not work, the number of people who would instantly try to murder them would almost be hilarious. _If you aren't the one being murdered, that is._ But Vane knew Jennings, had clearly taken a few tips in style and general viciousness, and even he was not about to risk the hydra growing a further hundred heads with a single ill-timed swipe. In the flesh, he was a powerful, stocky man with long brown dreadlocks, ice-blue eyes fixed on the mercenary captain in suspicion and confusion. "What the fuck are you doing on this floating shit shack, Henry?"

 _Henry, eh?_ Clearly the association was more interesting than Liam had thought, if they were on first-name terms. He seemed to recall hearing that Vane had gotten his first pirate job after wandering the docks in Jamaica looking for work, and since Jamaica was of course Jennings' home base, that must be where they crossed paths, and Jennings sent this promising young madman onto bigger and better things. But where Jennings' loyalty switched like a fickle sea breeze to whoever had the money to command it, Vane had stayed resolutely and utterly pirate. Gratitude for old favors or not, he wouldn't bat an eyelash at blowing Jennings out of the water if he thought (correctly) that he had now taken up with Nassau's enemies. _And by extension, us._

"Hello, Charles," Jennings said now, grinning rather dementedly. "How'd you get here?"

"Why the fuck does everyone want to know that? Told Flint, I'll tell you. Got the coordinates from some limp-dick named Hook. Heard of him?"

Liam's heart skipped a beat, for several reasons. He could see the avaricious gleam in Jennings' eye, realized that drugs or no drugs this information was very much of interest to him, and that he himself couldn't ask Vane where he had met Killian without Jennings hearing it too. He shot a furious look at Regina – wasn't there some way she could up the bloody dose of whatever she had given him, if they were stuck with this lunacy? Or at least –

"Aye, I've heard of him," Jennings said, satisfied as a cat in cream. "I was the one who gave him the hook. Well, not quite. What I mean is, I was the one to shorten him by a hand, so he fancied it as a replacement."

Vane raised an eyebrow. "So, some brilliant reason you're here, instead of there?" He jerked his head at the _Bathsheba._ "This one doesn't even look worth the bother to sack. Just to sink, for being in the way."

"Oh," Jennings said. "It has its uses. Hidden value, you might say. Isn't that right, Cap'n?"

Liam grimaced as the full attention of the _Ranger's_ crew swiveled to him. They might not know who he was by sight, but if Jennings kept talking, revealing him as the ex-commander of HMS _Imperator,_ it would once more be open season. He had absolutely no idea who was in control of this confrontation, only that it damn well wasn't him, and he was far from sure that it was Regina either. A man like Jennings had to know about vodou trickery and mind-altering substances, and while it seemed to have worked initially, the effect might have been less and less with each subsequent dose. _Bloody hell! I knew this was a stupid idea!_ He flexed his fingers, yearning to reach for his musket. Jennings made a perfect target, outlined starkly against the deepening flush of sunset, and from here, he could scarcely miss. Not that that would do anything about the _Ranger,_ still sitting right there and considering any temporary cease-fire to be null and void –

Regina gave him a warning look, and he stopped, but glared furiously at her, silently daring her to get the situation in hand right now if there had been any truth to her claims about being able to muzzle the mad dog. She stepped out, right into the potential line of fire from the _Ranger's_ forward guns, and Liam couldn't help but grudgingly admire her courage, even as he still wanted to wring her neck himself. She said something to Jennings, again too low to make out, as Vane and company stared at her avidly. Then she withdrew, and Jennings said, "My business is my own. But how about a bargain? You and I sail to attack the Spanish camp together, and you tell my friends where exactly you encountered Hook. They go our way, we go ours."

Vane scowled, clearly mistrusting how absurdly easy this sounded. "What? That's it? What's the fucking catch?"

"None." Jennings shrugged. "For some reason, they actually care about finding the bastard. You and I, on the other hand, care about becoming rich men. You let this ship go, I pop back over to the _Bathsheba,_ and we sail in tonight, under cover of darkness, to be absurdly wealthy by daybreak. Just tell us where Hook is."

It was Liam's turn to scowl, as he very much did not like that "us." If Jennings was playing this so he got an unfettered chance at the Spanish gold, _and_ the knowledge ofKillian's whereabouts, he also had to know that Liam would go to his brother directly. That way, he could have an easy shot at both of them, and prop their bullet-riddled corpses up on piles of stolen treasure for maximum aesthetic enjoyment. Wildly, Liam wondered if Jennings was in fact still working for Gold and had been all along, stringing them out and leading them on while they thought they had finally gotten the better of him, but the one thing that stopped him was Jennings' insatiable hunger for money. No matter what Gold was paying him, it wouldn't equal what he could carry off from the Spanish wrecks in even a single night, and by now, killing the Jones brothers wasn't a matter of handling dry, impartial government business on Gold's behalf. No. Jennings would do it for the fucking fun of it.

"Very well," Vane said, after a final hesitation. "It's simple. Saw him just outside Nassau. He traded the coordinates for permission to enter the harbor. Imagine someone paying that much just to get into _that_ shithole." He snorted. "Fucking amateur."

Jennings grinned, white and wolfishly. "Excellent. I'll be along to the _Bathsheba,_ then, and they can scurry on their way." He turned on Liam and Regina. "That's what you want, isn't it? Such a happy ending for everyone."

Regina didn't respond, surveying him grimly, but Liam did, shifting his weight and reaching stealthily for his knife. He'd have to time this carefully, couldn't do it in broad sight of everyone, but he did not intend to let Jennings leave the _Jewel_ alive, not after the plan had so clearly backfired and would cause untold woe and terror to all of them if he let it continue. _I should have done this back in Boston, and this time, I won't let her stop me._ The _Ranger_ and the _Bathsheba_ were both fast, but the _Jewel_ was faster. Stab Jennings and run for it, leaving them to decide if vengeance was really worth passing up the Spanish treasure. It wouldn't be for Vane, that was bloody certain, and even Jennings' men might bow to that almighty love of mammon that drove the lot of them. If not, it still didn't matter. _He dies, now._

As Jennings was descending the stairs, Liam made his move, prepared to drag him back into the shadows of the quarterdeck and do it quickly. One good slash – put an end to this fool's errand, get to Nassau, find Killian, and –

And then, a burning pain burst in his back, low in the ribs, as he felt hot blood starting to run down his hip, whiteness fizzing before his eyes as he reeled. In some small, impartial bit of his brain, he was able to recognize that he had just been stabbed, and that it had been intended to be much worse, that only haste and inexperience had prevented it from hitting something vital and dropping him on the spot. But he didn't understand – Jennings was still in front of him, it was Jennings who was the danger, Jennings he had guarded against, Jennings he was going to –

Oh.

 _Oh._

As he went to his knees, Liam twisted his head up and fixed his malfunctioning gaze on the pale, burning face of his half-brother. "I told you," Liam Junior whispered savagely, raising the knife overhead. "I _told_ you. Hurt him, and I'll kill you."

Liam raised an arm by instinct – blackness was starting to ebb at him, unconsciousness or something worse – but at that moment there was a bang, and Liam Junior stumbled backwards with a shriek, clutching his bleeding shoulder. The smoke whiffed acridly of gunpowder, and Liam managed to turn to see Regina still pointing the musket, her face set and white as marble. "Get off," she said. "Go run to your master, or I'll teach you a thing or two about killing."

Liam Junior looked at her furiously, even as the fracas and the sound of the gunshot was starting to cause a stir across all three ships. For his part, Jennings regarded the kneeling, bleeding Liam, Regina standing in front of him, and his wild-eyed little protégé with open amusement. "Well, Jones," he said. "You can take comfort in the fact that as terrible as this is, you've still had worse days. Now run to Nassau, if you don't croak right here, with your tail between your legs. You'd better. Because when I find your brother, I'll start with taking the other hand off. Do you want to watch that too?"

Liam tried to stagger to his feet, but he couldn't feel his legs, and crashed to the deck with a roar and a curse. Regina pointed the musket at Jennings – not much of a threat, since it was empty, but perhaps she could use it as a club – and he shrugged, blew them a kiss, and stepped into the ship's boat, Liam Junior scrambling after him. The _Bathsheba_ exploded with cheers, even Vane appeared impressed with this brutal turning of the tables, and it was then that Liam felt himself pushed, at last, to the unthinkable. He absolutely did not intend to die, and he did absolutely intend for them to do so. All of them. If he _did_ find Killian, and his brother offered him one more chance to turn pirate, Liam was far from sure that he would reject him again.

He wavered. Went to hands and knees, choking on the pain. Someone was laughing, and it was ringing in his ears. Kept on ringing, chasing him down the well, head over heels over head over heels, and into nothing but blackness at the bottom.

* * *

For a very long moment, Hook did nothing except stare at the boys, not even terribly concerned with the pistol Charlie was still pointing at him – he didn't have the stomach for it, and if he did, not much of a loss – as the enormity of the coincidence assailed him. So these were her – _these_ were her – these _were_ her – these were _her –_ and he had sallied in like the indisputable arsehole he was and nearly – well, they were here and so was he and even as the anger at himself whirled through his head, something else did as well. He might have fucked everything else up beyond repair, but he could still do something about this, and that was what he intended to. How, he hadn't a clue, but that seemed less important. He had to.

"Emma. . . Swan," he said at last, sounding rather numb to his own ears. "And you think she's a plantation factor in Jamaica, is that what you said?"

"Yes." Charlie did his best to hold the gun steady. "Now _leave_ , pirate, or I swear – "

"Bloody hell, lad, put it down," Hook snapped. "I'm not going to hurt you, and you're more likely to blow your own fool head off rather than mine. It's just, well, I know your sister, and she's not any sort of plantation factor – or rich merchant's daughter, for that matter. So whatever she's told you, it's not what you think."

"Why wouldn't she tell us the truth?" Charlie challenged. He did at least consent to lower the gun, if not let go of it entirely, on his guard for last-minute reversals. "How can you possibly – "

Hook blew out a weary breath; were all teenage boys this annoying to deal with? He felt a sudden surge of sympathy for Liam's patient handling of his various fits of pique, and then a surge of missing Liam in general, which he ignored. "She did it for your own safety, I imagine. Far harder to carry on with your life, working toward an honest trade, if you knew the money for your education and comfort came from brazen piracy."

Both the boys' jaws dropped. "No," Charlie said reflexively. "You're – I don't know why you would possibly think that, but – "

"Because it's the bloody truth." Hook was not in the mood for mealy-mouthing. "Your sister is a pirate. Damned good one, too. Captain Emma Swan, formerly of the _Blackbird,_ but that miserable bastard Jennings destroyed it. So you can shoot me for being one all you like, but it won't change anything. Daresay you two have done far better off it than I ever have."

"Is that – " The younger one, Henry, looked anxiously at his uncle. "Charlie, he's just making that up, isn't he? Mum isn't – "

"Look," Hook said. "It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Really?" Henry looked at him defiantly. "Then why are you ashamed of it?"

Hook grimaced with the truth of that, even as he bitterly resented being cut down to size by an eleven-year-old. "That's none of your bloody business, lad. You two said you were looking for her. As it happens, so am I – or at least, I was. Your current ship isn't going anywhere, but if you're still interested in finding her, I can take you. If, of course, you're willing to entrust your safety to such a dangerous rogue and cutthroat."

"Why would you do that?" Charlie looked at him warily. "Is this some kind of trick?"

"Not in this case." God, he was tired. "Call it square for attacking you. Take you to her, you can sort out whatever business you have, and see if I am in fact such a liar as all that. If we get there and she's not a pirate, you can justly impugn me as one, have some gold for your trouble, and go on your way. If we get there and she is – well then, I'm not, am I?"

The boys exchanged looks, clearly wondering what had spurred this offer and if it would make any sense at all to refuse, or if they would escape with their necks if they did. "Why would you do that?" Charlie repeated. "Are you. . . friends with her?"

"No," Hook said quietly. "But I can show you that pirates aren't what you think, no matter what that may be. Your sister had her reasons, much better than mine. You should know the truth. As I said." He turned. "Take it or bloody leave it."

"I – wait." Charlie finally consented to put down the pistol, looking as if he hoped he would live long enough to regret it. "What's your name?"

The pirate paused. After a moment he said, "Killian. Now if you're coming, let's go."

Charlie and Henry hesitated a moment longer, then grabbed their satchels from the shelves and followed him warily onto the smoky, chaotic deck. The _Jolie Rouge's_ men were attempting to do exactly as their captain ordered and give no quarter, which was why they were so surprised when he bounded up a shroud and bellowed at them to stop instead. A confused, blundering silence fell in fits and starts, none of them certain of the reason behind this abrupt change of heart, and enough bodies littered the boards to make it plain that it had come too late to save most of the merchants. _Just more blood on your hand, Jones, what does it matter?_ For their part, Charlie and Henry were looking as if pirates were exactly what they thought they were, and Hook couldn't say they were wrong. But the boys held their ground rather than fleeing back into the cabin, braced for anything, and he admired that. It was, after all, a character trait he could relate to.

"Take whatever spoils are aboard," he ordered the men. "We have to make a quick trip back to Nassau after all. Then we should be on our way again soon enough."

" _Nassau?"_ Charlie looked rather impressed by the legend and infamy of this destination, even if he wouldn't openly cop to it. "You really think my sister would be _there?"_

"I've no idea," Hook said shortly. "But there are some men there, from Sam Bellamy's crew, who know where to find her. I'll hand you over to them once we find them, and they'll take you from there. Bellamy's the sort of man they write songs about. You'll like him."

Charlie looked as if he was far from sure about this, but he bit his tongue and both of them followed Hook over to the _Jolie Rouge,_ determinedly not looking left or right, which was probably a good idea. Once they were aboard, pushed back from the smoking hulk of the merchant ship, and set sail, Charlie, having apparently decided that if Hook hadn't killed him by now, he wasn't going to, said, "Why don't you want to see her?"

"How about you mind your own bloody business?"

"I have a right to know," Charlie pressed. "You said you weren't friends, but if she was your enemy, you would have cut our throats and thrown us overboard. Instead you're making an effort to take us to her, and – why? It's not just because you want to prove something about pirates."

"What? Five bloody minutes ago, you're insisting she can't possibly be a pirate and I'm a murderous bastard, now you want the details on my personal life?"

"It would. . ." Charlie hesitated. "It would explain a lot. About how she never told us where she worked, or what exactly she did, and never wanted us to come to the Caribbean, or honestly, anything. I just. . . we're loyal subjects, we live in Virginia, I study law at the college founded by King William and Queen Mary, we never meant or thought we were engaging in treason. . . and if anyone found out, wouldn't we be. . . well, in danger? Wouldn't she?"

"Likely. Because the British Crown are just that much bastards. But I'm not going to let them hang you. Or her. So for what it's worth, there's that."

"You do care for her." Charlie looked at him challengingly. "Don't you?"

"It's a bloody long swim to Nassau, lad. Don't test me. Take your nephew and go into the cabin, nobody will trouble you. I'll let you know when we've arrived." Hook turned away. "Now."

He felt Charlie's eyes boring into his back – bloody hell, did the boy _have_ to be as perceptive as his sister, it was a pain in the damn arse – but after a moment, he did as ordered, ushering Henry into the cabin and shutting the door. Hook leaned on the railing, already cursing himself and wondering if it was too late to change his mind, but he knew grimly that he wouldn't. If nothing else, he'd get Emma's brother and son to her, then quietly depart before she knew he was there or that he'd had anything to do with it. He wasn't trying to get into her good graces, since he was quite sure there was no way and no point to it anyway, and he'd made his decision. But he wasn't going to let the boys die, and that was just bloody that. Besides, he had rushed so precipitously out of Nassau after – _it –_ that he'd managed to leave a good chunk of his men behind, including important ones like Whale and Hopper. If he planned on steering them into any more firefights and general dangerous situations, it would behoove him to have at least one surgeon aboard. He could tell that Hopper was uncomfortable with their swift descent into no-holds-barred outlawry, one of the men who couldn't turn off years of Navy training and decorum merely in the heat of emotion, and that was going to have to be smartly remedied.

They hadn't been that far out from Nassau, but still at least ten or twelve hours, and it grew darker and darker as they sailed, the stars and then the moon coming out to fleck the black canopy of the sky with crystalline chips of light. Hook drowsed on deck, waking up with a jerk whenever his head dropped, until at last, sometime in the wee hours, he sighted the harbor lamps just ahead. _If Vane's back already, I'm just shooting him and sailing over the wreck._ Likely not, as there were presumably still filthy-rich pickings to be had at the Spanish treasure camp, but he was very decidedly not in the mood for tomfoolery.

No such specter appeared to block the way, however, and they entered, dropped anchor, and lowered the boat, Charlie and Henry yawning and rubbing their eyes as they emerged from the cabin and climbed in with Hook and a few others. Hook himself couldn't look directly at the town, imagining that Brennan's body must still be in there somewhere. Had they chucked it on a midden, or taken it off in the mortuary wagon? God, what if he stumbled across it, still lying in the tavern where he'd left it? His throat burned at the thought, stomach churning, and he swallowed viciously. Just get ashore, find those of Bellamy's men who had escorted his father here in the first place, and hand Charlie and Henry over to them. They could be leaving again before sunrise, and he very much intended to, had told the men to keep the _Jolie Rouge_ up and waiting for his quick return. He bloody well wasn't staying here an instant longer than he had to.

They rowed in and cautiously disembarked. It was, after all, very late at night, and there would be an even lower class of ruffian out looking for mischief than walked the streets by day. Hook told Charlie and Henry to stay close, hand on his sword, as they wound through the dark warrens. Bloody hell, this was stupid. He had no way of knowing if Bellamy's men had even bothered staying around after Brennan turned up as a corpse, rather than booking it out of here to rejoin their captain and get their pick of the goods. Now he was running around the arse-end of the pirates' stronghold at fuck o'clock in the morning, just asking to be jumped and murdered too, and the boys with him. Which would bring an emphatic end to any hope of –

" _Hsst!"_

Hook's heart nearly leaped out of his chest, as he skidded to a halt in the mud and swore far too inventively for the tender ears of his companions. A wooden shutter had banged in the half-timbered house leaning over the narrow alley, and visible through the window, illuminated by the stumpy candle he was holding, was the gingery, bespectacled face of his missing surgeon's mate himself, Archibald Hopper. "Captain? Is that you?"

"Of course it is," Hook snarled. "How many other men have this bloody thing?"

"I just – " Hopper hesitated. "I, well, I think you should come up here."

Hook was about to protest, but something in the man's voice stopped him. He considered, then jerked his head once, veering off toward the door, jerking it open, and stepping inside, the ceiling low enough that he had to duck. Charlie and Henry trailed after him like baby ducklings after their mother, which was not the most formidable and terrifying mental image in the world, and he led them to the cramped stairs at the back, climbing with creaks and thumps to the second floor. There was another door, which he pushed open without knocking, as Hopper turned with a start, rinsing his bloody hands in a bowl of water. The room was only lit with sputtering, smoky tallow candles, but even as Hook opened his mouth to ask who the devil had been hurt –

" _Bellamy?"_ He actually stopped in his tracks, convinced he was seeing things. But no, it was him, lying shirtless on a divan, in what Hook would have thought was supposed to be an alluring pose if not for the fact that the right side of Bellamy's chest was ripped open from shoulder to breastbone. It was a heavy, ugly wound, which had clearly been inflicted several days ago and treated only clumsily since, and to which Hopper had been applying the full range of his talents in order to get it under control. "What happened to you?"

With a jerk of his head, Bellamy indicated he would prefer to speak to him alone, and Hopper took charge of Charlie and Henry, stepping out and shutting the door to give them some marginal privacy. Hook stared, trying to make any sense of what was going on, as Bellamy shifted his weight and grimaced. "Well," he remarked. "We've certainly gone to quite a lot of trouble to chase you down. Never let it be said I didn't put any skin in the game, eh?"

"I. . . in Boston, I. . ." It was Killian who said that, not Hook, as he took a seat next to him, confused and flustered and concerned. "I didn't mean to. . . when Jennings said. . ."

"Aye, well." Bellamy managed a lopsided grin. "This has nothing to do with him, actually. Totally unrelated. So if you were worried I'd hold a grudge, I didn't."

"But. . . Nassau." Killian rubbed his eyes. "You shouldn't be here."

"Didn't plan to be. But as the alternative was carking it, and I really didn't fancy that, here I am." Bellamy tried to shrug, swore violently, and fell back on the divan. "Bugger. Stupid idea."

"Don't move, you'll make it worse." Killian reached for the bandages clearly intended to serve this purpose, and pressed it carefully to the wound, as best he could one-handed. He also passed Bellamy the rum bottle, sensing this would be a more effective anesthetic, and helped him take a few deep slugs. Then at last, quietly, he said, "Do you know where she is?"

Bellamy glanced at him, not needing to ask who he meant. "Aye."

"Those boys with me, they're her – her brother and her son. Can you see that they get to her safely? Or if she's still with you, look after them?" Killian looked down, unable to meet the other man's eyes. "I'll. . . pay whatever you ask."

"Pay? You think that's what I'd want?"

"Well. . ." It was true that Sam Bellamy was a different kind of pirate in any number of ways. "I just. . . I brought them here, I didn't know what to do after that. I said I'd get them here and I did, and I can't see her because I don't deserve to – I just wanted them to be safe, that was all – I'm not worthy of anything else, nobody cares for me and they shouldn't, not after what I've – I just want to make sure it's done and then go so I don't even have the chance – "

Bellamy sighed, a gusty, pained exhale, and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Then he reached out with his good hand, got hold of Killian's head, and pulled him down. Before Killian could ask what he was doing, or even think of resisting (though it didn't seem sporting to fight an invalid) Bellamy turned their heads just so, and kissed him.

To say the very least, Killian had not been expecting this, even as he was abruptly reminded of his promise to do this exact thing if he saw him again. He didn't know how to react, aside from trying not to hurt Bellamy's wounded shoulder any more, but it was – it wasn't something he had an interest in repeating on a daily basis, but it was _good,_ it was strange and warm and gentle all at once, long and considered and slow, meeting and parting and then meeting again, browsing and breathing, until it was only quite belatedly that he finally pulled back, blinking like a concussed ox. "What the – what did you do that for?"

"Well," Bellamy said, slightly breathless but otherwise composed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "First, you were talking a lot of utter twaddle about how you were convinced that everyone hated you and you were completely undeserving of anyone's respect or affection, and I figured it would be more efficient to give you a practical demonstration, rather than trying to hammer sense through that idiot skull of yours. Second, I would have kicked myself forever if I didn't do that at least once in my life. Third, in fact, you're wrong twice over. Emma's here, and she still wants to see you."

"She – what?" Killian felt as if a small explosion had gone off in his head, tilting the floor and the room and the entire world, sliding and sliding. "She's _here?_ In Nassau?"

"How do you think I got here? She sailed the _Whydah_ as captain while I was incapacitated, arrived and found Hopper and convinced him to treat me, and hid us here so the more undesirable elements didn't get wind of our presence. She's the absolute hell of a woman, mate, and if you're still going to miss that out, I don't know what to tell you except you're an – "

"I. . . I know." Killian's mouth was dry as a desert. "But don't you. . . know what happened to the man you sent here to look for me? My. . . my f-father?"

"Yes." Bellamy looked at him. "What did he tell you?"

"Just that. . . you two had sent him, and. . . that she. . . was alive, and she wanted. . . to see me." Killian could barely make it through the words, gruesome memories flashing through his head all over again. "And I lost my temper after hearing what he. . . what he'd done to our half-brother – we have one, apparently – and I. . ."

"My men told me," Bellamy said. "Told both of us. So yes, Emma knows."

"And she. . ." Killian gulped air, trying to get it into his lungs, trying to stay upright, trying to remember his own name. "Didn't. . . hate me forever?"

"She feels incredibly guilty." Bellamy looked at him levelly. "She hasn't said more about it than that. If she'd known it was going to happen, I doubt she would ever have agreed to it. But we. . . didn't feel as if we had much choice."

"Why?"

"Ask her yourself."

Killian cringed. But he was well aware that Bellamy was the one lying here with his shoulder ripped to bloody bits, and yet was still the one having to run interference, mediate them between each other, and it was unfair, as well as cowardly. Besides, he had come this far and faced this much, perhaps he deserved to at least know what she really thought of him, rather than tormenting himself with worst-case scenarios forever. He took a shaking breath, clenching his fist, then rumpled his fingers through his hair. "She's nearby?"

"Aye. Out in the courtyard. She would have stayed, but – " Bellamy flashed a crooked grin – "I told her I'd probably scream like a little girl, and it wouldn't be very edifying. So aye."

Killian could hear the unspoken, poignant note behind Bellamy making a joke of it, that he really hadn't wanted Emma to see him in pain or having to worry about him more, and wondered just how close they had become. If so, honor demanded that he at least be certain. "If you two are. . ." It stuck in his throat, and he had to force it out. "If you're, well, if you're – "

Bellamy looked at him in surprise. "If we're what? Together? I love that lass dearly, and you'd better do right by her or I'll stuff your ballocks down your throat, but she's like my little sister. Frankly, I'm more likely to accidentally marry you, especially after that kiss." He winked. "Now bloody hell, get down there or I'll drag you myself, and you don't want to put me through that."

Killian made a faint squeaking noise, but did as ordered, making sure the rum bottle was in easy reach for Sam, crossing the room, and starting down the stairs, feet feeling as if they weighed a thousand pounds apiece. His heart was pounding in his throat, his palm clammy with cold sweat, as he was briefly certain that he was going to faint and tumble down the steps and break his damn neck. _Bloody hell, Jones, you aren't a swooning damsel, just do it._ Oh Christ, he wasn't ready for this. Maybe she had gone to bed for the night. Maybe she had found Charlie and Henry, they'd told her what had gone on, and she had taken them far away, just as she should. _Not me. I can't. Don't look. Don't see._

He reached the ground floor. The back corridor was so dark that he had to grope as if through pure ink, but he could feel cooler air from the crack in the door, reached it, knocked the latch with his hook, and managed to get it loose. All the possibilities of how she would react, or how he would, whirled through his head like startled butterflies, like fragments of a half-remembered dream, the sweetness lost on waking, existing somewhere else, somewhere between. It might not be nearly as much as all that, after everything he had built up in the madness of his shattered, suffering head. He might see her, and the spell might break, the enchantment end, like a faerie fading away on the morning dew. She might be just another woman. Nothing special at all.

It was now. He had to. In sickness or in health. For better or worse. For this day, and all of them. It had come down to this, it was only this, and – oh God – Killian Jones, in the end, did not run.

He pushed the door open, and stepped outside.


	24. XXIV

**-XXIV-**

The night was cool and quiet, palms rustling in the sea breeze and the hour late enough that even the most dedicated degenerates were snoring in a drunken stupor, a loose shutter banging where someone had forgotten to latch it and a stray dog yelping for scraps in the alley, as Emma sat on the edge of the well at the center of the courtyard, shooting occasional anxious glances up at the window. It had been a nerve-wracking return to Nassau, Bellamy hanging in there but clearly in considerable discomfort, and when they arrived, it was only luck that she had stumbled across Hopper fast enough to stop it turning even worse. They'd rented a room here, where the proprietor could be paid enough to be firmly blind and deaf; Emma would have preferred to take Sam to Miranda's house, but that could be arranged later. All the decisions about logistics and locations could wait until Sam was comfortable and safe, and she was only letting herself think about one thing at a time. Hook wasn't here, had left in a wild fury, but Hopper was. And the reason for that was because –

Emma's lips tightened grimly, as she heard more footsteps and voices from inside the house and frowned. It sounded as if the entire army was tromping through there, and as Hopper was only one man and Sam wasn't about to be running around for a while yet, she shifted her weight and reached for her sword. It wasn't as if she thought anyone was going to burst in and assassinate them on the spot, but she still didn't want the street to know they were here. She had been the cause of quite enough trouble on her own, and throwing in Bellamy – an unknown commodity who could poach all the best men from the rest of the captains' crews, a powerful and charismatic newcomer who could take over the politics of the place in a minute if he chose to, the exact sort of threat to make the backstabbers and bilge-rats unite to remove him – would be even worse. For likely the first time in her life, she wished that Flint was here. He was, well, Flint, but he wouldn't let them be hurt. Yet he was back at the wrecks, hopefully having stolen enough treasure to make their gambit with the _Asunción_ and Sam's injury worth it, and God knew when he'd feel like turning up again. _Or if he'll give any of it to us when he does._

In the meantime, however, the role of guardian and protector fell to her, and she got to her feet, preparing to investigate the commotion and dispense swift remedy if necessary. Quietly crossed the straw-strewn stones of the courtyard, reached for the door, and –

It opened from the other side at that moment, and she stumbled, nearly knocking heads with the man in black leather who was stepping out as if to the call of warhorns in battle. At first she saw nothing but a threatening-looking shadow, unfamiliar and dangerous, and reached for her saber again – but then the moon came out from behind a haze of cloud, caught on the face and the blue eyes and the curve of steel in place of his left hand, a strangled voice said, _"Christ,_ Swan, don't stab me just yet!" and her heart actually stopped for a full beat in her chest. Perhaps several.

" _You?"_ She tried to take a step back, but her feet were rooted to the ground. Now that she had a better look, she was in no doubt, and she wondered madly if she had been mistaken, if Hopper or someone else had lied, if he had never left Nassau at all, if that horrible story about his father was just fiction, or – or – she didn't know what it could possibly be, except that it was him. Captain Hook, Killian Jones, nearly three months after their last meeting among the flames on the Kingston docks, after he had dueled Flint, seen her, swore he wanted nothing to do with her again, and staggered out of sight, out of her life. So, at least, she had very much thought.

"Aye." He smiled wanly, lifting his gaze to hers, and as she stood there, bathed in the fall of silver moonlight, Emma saw something in his face change, as tangibly as if a great wheel had turned and a stone tablet carved on a mountaintop, as if lightning had struck the earth and set fire to the rain, as if it was nothing more or less than pure and elemental and eternal. As if that moment, right there, was when he fell utterly and breathlessly and dizzyingly and desperately in love with her, as if the grief and rage and guilt and pain melted like snowflakes on the tongue and he forgot everything, all the sacrifices and suffering, everything it had taken just to see her and stand in her presence again. She felt it like a powerful, shivering chill up and down her body, gooseflesh prickling on her arms, almost wanting to turn away, to close her eyes, to do anything to escape or deny it – but at the same time, wanting nothing so much as to come outside, to stand up, to breathe air, to feel sunlight on her face and to be warmed through. They stood there, just staring at each other, until he finally said, barely more than a whisper, "I came back."

Emma opened and shut her mouth, feeling a strange hot prickle behind her eyes, taking half a step and then stopping, raising her hand as if to brush the backs of her fingers over his unshaven cheek, a test to see if he was real, if he was there. Her hand caught just a breath from him, trembling in the air, and she couldn't quite make herself do it, the last space remaining poignantly separate from each other. At last, she said only, "Why?"

"I. . ." He didn't seem to have a ready answer. "I just wanted to apologize, for everything I've said, everything I've done, that's hurt you. What happened to me, it's. . ." He closed his eyes for an instant, brilliant and fragile and translucent as blown glass pulled from the kiln, in a way nobody had ever dared to be vulnerable with Emma before, not once in her memory, not for any reason. "It's not your fault. It's mine."

She blew out a slow, shaking breath, feeling the tears prickle more insistently, but refusing to let them fall. "Killian, I. . . it might not be, but I. . . I made choices of my own, said things, did things. . . they were what I thought were the best decisions for me at the time, and perhaps they were, but. . . they hurt you, they helped contribute to it, and I'm. . . I'm sorry too."

"We didn't know each other from Adam and Eve. I was a Navy lieutenant holding you prisoner, and you were a wanted pirate. You've nothing to apologize for, for not trusting me, for trying to save yourself." He lifted his head, regarding her squarely. "All I want to know is if it was easy. To leave me, to take Bones and go, jump off the _Imperator_ and not look back. Was it?"

Emma flinched. She didn't want to answer, and she didn't want to lie to him, and a very great part of her just wanted to have him take her in his arms and kiss her, fit their broken pieces and their jagged edges, to be together for just a moment, even if that one moment was all they were going to have. But she could only imagine what Miranda would say if, after having put herself through such trouble to get back to Nassau and find Killian for her, Emma simply shut away the chance altogether. She forced herself to look back at him. "No. It wasn't easy at all."

A corner of his mouth quirked, in something too sad and resigned to be a smile. "And in Boston – Jennings told me he'd killed you, the foul wretch. But you – ran away?"

"Aye," Emma said, very carefully. She had no idea whether to tell him now, or how, or even if she should. If this was merely a brief visit to ensure that the air was clear, that they could now return to separate lives, she did not want to confuse the issue, and she refused to use the baby as an excuse to cling to him, force him to stay. She didn't need money from Killian, or pity, or horror, or patronization, or whatever else he might do. All she wanted was him, and if that was not about to be offered, she would take no less, no cheapened, grudgingly given substitute. "Miranda helped. I ran to Cape Cod and ended up with Bellamy. I've been with him ever since."

"He's too good for all of us." Killian looked wry, then turned more serious. "I'm sorry for what happened to your ship. It was your home, your everything, and losing it. . ."

Emma briefly felt her throat close, and nodded instead, trying to downplay it. "Sam's offered to take me another one. Once – once he's healed, that is. For his sake, if not mine, I hope you'll let us keep Hopper until he's seen to it."

"What? Aye, of course." Killian sounded startled that she would even have to ask. "So you. . . you want to stay with him, then?"

"Is there another choice?" Emma tilted her head back, looking into his moon-shadowed face. "Sam is a dear, wonderful man, I owe him more than I can repay, and if I do end up staying on the _Whydah,_ I'm sure it would be no bad life. Or whatever new ship he takes me. I'll have to think of something, I can't be out of work forever. Charles and Henry – "

"Ah." Killian glanced down and scratched behind his ear. "About that. I've something to tell you."

Emma's heart picked up a few notches. "Oh?"

"Yes. After. . . earlier, I left here and went out to sea and attacked a merchanter. When I boarded, I found two lads in the cabin, a young man and a boy. Charles and Henry Swan. They said you're their sister and mother, respectively. That they were looking for you. I took them aboard the _Jolie_ and brought them with me. They're here. In Nassau."

"Charles and Henry are _h –_?" Emma's voice turned into a croak on the last word. "You attacked their _ship_ and then took them with you? _Why?"_

"I didn't know who they were or that they were on it." Killian's cheeks had begun to heat. "When I realized, I – decided I'd take them to you. I wasn't intending for you to know that it was me. I couldn't leave them aboard their wrecked ship, so I thought this was best."

Emma rubbed her cold fingertips under her eyes. There were a thousand things she could have answered to that, and she had no idea which one she should start with, if any. At last she said, very quietly, "Do they know that I'm a – "

"Aye." Killian remained looking at her, braced for whatever recriminations or accusations she wanted to dish out. "I told them the truth. Told them as well that you had good reasons for it, that you never meant to hurt them, and that it was much more complicated then they thought."

Emma had been going to say something else, but at that, all she could do was look at him, oddly and utterly heartbroken. The one thing Killian Jones could not stand was his loved ones lying to him for any reason – the powder keg that had blown up in Liam's face, that must have blown up fatally in Brennan's, the accumulated weight of deception upon deception, all those years, all those missed chances. Whether or not they had good intentions did not matter. Yet upon discovering that she had lied to Charles and Henry for just as long, his instinct had not been to savage her for it, but to understand, to defend her to them, even thinking he would never see her again and that he had nothing to gain for it, to take them out of danger as fast as he could. It did not outweigh the fact that he had been the one to put them in it in the first place, even unwittingly, but it still hit her hard in an unexpected spot. He was so broken, so very, very mixed up and bruised and battered by the horror of what he had been through, the distance he had fallen, but it still gave her a tiny spark of hope that the good man was still in there, that not everything had been lost in the flames. Killian, not Hook. Somewhere.

"I – see," she said at last, rather thickly. "But Nassau is no place for them. If Miranda is still here, I'll ask if they can stay at her house until I can arrange passage back to Virginia, with the money I owe Ingrid. Or – "

"I'll take them back, if you can't find another ship," Killian said quietly. "It would only be just."

"What? No. You can't enter Williamsburg or any other harbor in the colonies, they'd seize you and hang you and all your men on sight. The Guthries have a few merchant ships with legitimate papers that handle our trade, I'll approach one of them. I've sent some of Sam's men to search the island for Miranda and Will, hopefully they'll be back by morning. Then we'll – what?"

"Nothing," Killian said. "Only that I met Will, rather by accident. He was. . . stubborn."

"That's a good word for him." Emma had to grin, despite herself. "Loyal to a fault, besides. And Flint said that the other survivors from my crew were on the _Walrus,_ so I won't have to build entirely from the ground up."

"That's good, then." Killian looked as if he wanted to say something else, but didn't. He made an awkward gesture. "Would you like to see the lads?"

Emma's heart caught in her throat. Almost six years away, dreaming of a future, not daring to tell them how she was building it, and this was never how she had envisioned the reunion to go. Charlie had been a gawky twelve-year-old and Henry just five, so the mental images she carried must be risibly outdated, mere shadowed memories. But she did, very much, and she had to gather herself before she could answer. "Aye, I would."

Killian paused, then nodded, offered her his arm with correct gentlemanly decorum, and she likewise hesitated, then took it. It felt like something crackled when she touched him, for the first time since their last coupling on the table in his cabin, hot and heedless and hungry, back at the Spanish wrecks. His eyes flickered to hers, as both of them clearly felt it, and her body nearly ached with the need to be nearer to him, to close the distance both of them were still carefully, tenuously holding between each other. But not now. Not yet. Nothing too fast. It was too fragile.

With that, he led her into the dark, stuffy boarding house, down the hall to the small sitting room. A tall, blonde young man in an ink-spattered waistcoat scrambled to his feet at the sight of them, as did a sturdy brown-haired eleven-year-old, gaping at her as if at an unearthly visitation. _"Emma?"_ Charlie said, as Henry said, _"Mum?"_ And in that, no matter what she had been expecting or planning or intending, she simply could not breathe.

The next instant, they hit her hard enough to make her stagger, as she wrapped her arms around them and hugged them until she was even less able to breathe, as she felt tears rolling down her cheeks and she was smiling until her face hurt and gulping air in strangled sobs, as she hugged them again and again. They did not appear inclined to sour the reunion with angry accusations about why she had lied to them or the danger they might now be in – didn't care about anything except for the fact that they had finally seen each other again, after so long apart, so many days and nights, all the time she had missed with both of them. Henry clasped her tightly enough around the waist to make her briefly and ludicrously wonder if his sibling would notice being squashed, and she took his head in her hands and kissed his forehead, going to her knees to hold him better. Charles crouched down as well, the three Swans rocking in a family embrace until they regained control of themselves and pushed back, grinning helplessly. "God," Charlie said. "God, it's good to see you."

"And you." Emma wiped her eyes, taking a deep breath, as she glanced up and saw Killian watching them with a terrible, powerful hunger, delighted that she got to experience such a joyous reunion, and yet clearly desolate that he would never have one himself. Not with his brother estranged and his father dead at his own hand, all the distance, all the loss, all the madness. Yet he had still brought her boys back to her, and not asked for a single thing in return.

Emma climbed to her feet, brushing herself off, as her shirt curved on the small but obvious bulge of her stomach and she saw Charlie's eyes flicker to it. Henry and Killian hadn't noticed anything, but he remembered, if vaguely, when she had been pregnant before. His gaze darted to hers, questioning, and she shook her head, before thinking that this was another lie she would have to amend later – well, she would eventually have no choice. But this was likewise not a conversation she felt up to having now, and there had to be spare rooms in the boarding house – she was paying the proprietor enough that he wouldn't be renting it out to anyone else, to keep Sam's presence secret. "Well," she said firmly. "It's past time you two were in bed."

When they had been stashed in a suitable chamber, clearly excited despite themselves to be in the very heart of the pirate kingdom, she went back out into the corridor, where Killian was leaning against the wall. "Thank you," she said, quietly but sincerely. "Thank you for bringing them to me. I know things have been. . . in upheaval, and I'm glad you were able to do that."

"Aye, well, love." He glanced at her, then away. "You're welcome."

That simple, casual endearment made Emma's hands almost burn with the urge to touch him, the unspoken, unbearable charge in the air that came from the two of them simply occupying the same space. There were, after all, plenty of beds – just drag him into one and have their way with each other, see if that exorcised it – but she didn't feel nearly able to be so intimate with him just yet, in nothing but their skins both mentally and physically, all their secrets laid quite literally bare, including the rather large one she was still keeping from him. "So," she said, bracing herself for the answer. "Are you. . . are you leaving, then?"

"I thought I'd stay, for now." Again, that half-look. "I'll send orders to anchor the _Jolie_ properly and resupply her – we're running low, what with all the bloody scrapes we've been in – and collect the rest of my men. Make sure that Sam is on the mend, that your lads are sorted, and Mrs. Barlow knows she doesn't need to go questing across half the damned Caribbean. No need for me to rush out headlong again and do something else idiotic."

Emma breathed, ever so slightly. At least he wasn't so desperate to be rid of her as to sprint out before sunrise, which she had half-feared he would be. She also knew that he had killed his father here, and must very much want to be away from the ghost, but was forcing it down for everyone else's sake – hers, Sam's, the boys', Miranda and Will's. Still so instinctively, even in his darkness, thinking of others. _I'm sorry, Killian. I'm sorry for sending Brennan to you, I'm sorry for what he did to you, I'm sorry you felt as if you had no other choice. I'm sorry. I wish I had known. I wish I had done better._

They looked at each other again, long and yearningly, so close to breaking down the castle walls and coming outside to meet, but both too scared to quite do it. Emma wet her lips, nodded, and turned on her heel, opening the door into Sam's room and peering inside. He was asleep, Hopper having finished cleaning and re-bandaging his shoulder, and she tiptoed across the creaky floor to double-check; he had moved from the divan to the bed, so he should at least be somewhat more comfortable. She gazed down at him, noting how young he looked. Sam was very much her big brother in terms of their relationship, but he was in fact the same age as her, twenty-eight, likewise a prodigy who had risen to command in tender youth. Also as he had told her, he had four older sisters (the eldest Bellamy son having died in childhood) who had clucked over, spoiled, and generally made a pet of the youngest only boy, which explained a great deal about his affection for women and his gallantly protective nature. She smoothed a wayward lock of black hair out of his face, then leaned down to lightly kiss his forehead, checking for fever. He was a bit warm, but not too bad. He should be all right.

Sam stirred, murmuring in his sleep, but didn't wake. Emma considered, then went to put together a makeshift bed on the divan he had vacated, not wanting to leave him alone and likewise, if she was being honest, too frightened to go back out and see what might happen with Killian, if it was late and dark and they were the only two people awake in the house, in the witching hour. So she climbed onto the cushions, trying to stretch a cramp in her back, and looked up at the flaking ceiling, folding her hands on her stomach. She wondered when this one would quicken; she hadn't felt Henry move until five months, but it was said to occur earlier with subsequent children. She was nearly three months along now, and while she didn't want Killian to find out only when it became too obvious to conceal any further, she still wondered if there was a way to schedule it carefully. If he left again in a few days, that wouldn't make much difference. Though if she let him go without telling him, and then later he heard. . .

She didn't have an answer, and drifted into a troubled, fitful doze that finally deepened into actual sleep just before daybreak. When she opened her eyes again, the room was full of sun, paving hot golden trails on the floor, and Hopper had just appeared with Sam's morning treatment regimen, both of them surprised, but not unwarrantedly so, to see her there. "Ah, Captain," Hopper said. "Good morning. There are visitors for you in the kitchen, by the way."

"More of them?" Emma sat up and pulled on her boots, knotting her hair into a messy braid. "Sam's men are back?"

"Aye, they have a woman – well, two women, I think, but frankly I am not at all sure – and a man with them. Asked for you."

Miranda and Will. It had to be. And Flint had mentioned something about Anne Bonny being with them, so – Emma's pace hurried as she pounded down the stairs, into the small kitchen at the rear of the house. Charlie and Henry were stuffing their faces with bread, honey, eggs, and fish as if they had never seen food before, and across from them, Miranda Barlow – looking tired and dirty, but not too much the worse for wear – was sipping tea from a pottery cup. Will was likewise applying himself to the victuals as if in fear of their imminent disappearance, and Anne had taken up guard duty in the corner, eyeing the men's feeding frenzy with sardonic amusement. At Emma's entrance, she touched a finger to her battered hat. "Cap'n."

Emma nodded at her quickly, but her attention was on Miranda, who had already knocked over her chair and jumped to her feet, and the two women rushed to embrace. Miranda held her tightly, kissing her temple before she pulled back to look at her, holding her shoulders and surveying her to assure herself that Emma was in one piece. "Oh, my dear. I'm so glad."

"Aye." Emma ducked her head, eyes bright, as she wrapped her hand over Miranda's and squeezed. Glancing around the room, she couldn't help but ask, "Where's Killian?"

"He's here, is he?" Will tore himself away from the food long enough to look up and glower. "Need to punch him, do I?"

"No, we – we met last night, we talked. He brought the boys here." Emma waved shyly at Charlie and Henry. "That's my brother and my – my son. It's a long story, but they're on Nassau for the time being. Miranda, can we take them, and possibly also Sam, to your house? Just until I can arrange a ship for them back to Virginia."

"Of course, whatever you need." Miranda looked at her tenderly. "But yes. Where _is_ Killian?"

"Scuttled when he saw me." Anne grinned. "Back to 'is ship, I think. Still a git. I'll punch him if Scarlet won't."

"No, nobody punch him." Grateful as she was to see everyone finally coming together after their far-flung misadventures, Emma considered that this would have to be managed very carefully. "Anne, please don't try to kill him again either, all right? We're – working on things."

Anne eyed her, then shrugged, as if to say that whoever Emma chose to fuck was her own business and nobody had the right to tell her off for it, but that she herself still saw absolutely no sense to the choice whatsoever. At hearing that they had already seen each other, however, a faint frown creased Miranda's brows. When the boys had been safely distracted by their breakfast again, she said quietly, "Have you told him yet?"

Emma hesitated. "No."

"Please tell him." Miranda's brown eyes were intent and searching. "Will knows, but only by accident because I didn't tell him earlier, and it came up at a very bad moment. I think Killian's father may have mentioned it to him, but he didn't believe him, and then when he asked Will. . ."

"Oh God." Emma took hold of Miranda's sleeve and towed her into the veranda, so they could have more privacy. "Do you know what he – what he said? Did he. . . not want it? Sam and I told Brennan about the child, but we also warned him not to mention it, we didn't want him to use it to guilt Killian into forgiving him, but if he thought it was a lie or he didn't – "

"I don't know." Miranda held her firmly by the arms, refusing to let her fly off into a panic. "But he can't learn about it in some other way. I already made a mistake by not telling Will, when we set off to find Killian in the first place. Don't do it again."

"But I. . ." Emma trailed off. Barely above a whisper, she said, "The last time. . . with Neal. . ."

"Yes, I know. He ran and he never came back and he never even knew." Miranda's lips pressed into a disapproving line, as she had previously made her opinions of Mr. Neal Cassidy, rich plantation owner's son, quite clear. "And you're afraid that if you tell Killian, he'll run too, even as you don't want it to be the only reason he could think of to stay. My dear, I am not the Oracle at Delphi, I cannot foresee the future or what he will do or what he will choose. But I do know that you have to. Only then can you begin to work through the consequences."

Emma had no answer for that. As usual, she knew that Miranda was right, but the prospect terrified her more than she could put into words. The fact that Will also knew was a wild card, as she didn't _think_ he'd blurt out the news at an inopportune moment, but with Will, bless his heart, you could never be entirely sure. She had already had to put Charlie off the scent, and while Henry was young enough that he might just be excited about having a brother or sister, Charlie would realize the complications – not least the fact that the father was the most wanted fugitive and traitor in the Caribbean. He might not have clued onto the full extent of Hook's notoriety yet, but it wouldn't take long. Coming on the heels of learning that she was in fact a pirate and likewise could wind up on the wrong end of the noose, there was no telling how he might react. His own future, his place at college, his possibility of gainful employment as a solicitor, perhaps even his life, could hang in the balance as well.

Emma took a breath, trying to steady herself. "I'll find a time for it," she said feebly. "In the meantime, can we take the boys – and Sam, if Hopper agrees he's strong enough to be moved – to your house? I'd rather not leave them here any longer than I have to."

Miranda gave her the look that she gave Emma (and Flint) when she was aware that they were dodging the question, but consented to let it go for the time being. They returned inside, introductions were made, and Anne was sent out to hire a cart and mule, as she was the least likely either to receive or to put up with any nonsense. Hopper was leery about whether Sam should be subjected to a bumpy ride of several miles, however, and recommended that he stay here until the wound had closed a bit better. Emma could see the sense in not forcing Miranda to babysit Charlie and Henry and tend to a wounded man as well, though she herself and Hopper would be nearby to assist, but still. This way, she could be with Charlie and Henry, or with Sam, but not all three at the same time, and the thought of letting any of them out of her sight twisted her stomach into knots. They had anchored the _Whydah_ not in the main harbor, but in a hidden cove further down the coast, yet sooner or later someone would see it. Sam was well known by reputation – he was one of Ben Hornigold's old men, after all – and the reaction to this threat would be swift. Nor would Sam's crew take it lying down, and it could push the ever-uneasy balance of peace in Nassau over into a brewing civil war. No need for England or Spain or anyone to try to destroy them, then, if they were happy to do it themselves.

Anne returned shortly with the cart and mule, and she, Charlie, Henry, Miranda, and Will climbed into it. Emma told the boys that she would book them back to Virginia as soon as she could, once she turned some of the goods that Sam had stolen for her off Leopold White's ship into hard cash. Charlie looked a bit leery of the idea that their return was waiting on more criminal activity, but likewise held his tongue for the time being, and the two of them promised to do what Miranda said. Then Anne cracked the whip, and they lumbered out of sight, with Emma anxiously watching them go. Will and Anne would protect them from anything, of that she had no doubt, but she was utterly unused to having so many people she cared about near at hand, unable to defend them all, knowing that they were in danger of one sort or another. It felt as if she was cut into little pieces, when she was used to being whole.

She passed the rest of the morning and afternoon trying not to hover too much over Sam and Hopper, as neither of them needed her there, and also trying not to look out the window every other minute to see if Killian had returned yet. A particularly fearful part of her wondered if he had simply taken the excuse to sail away, but for better or worse, she didn't think so. Whether he might do so later, however, remained very much up in the air.

It was close to dusk when the door of the boarding house finally banged, and Killian appeared in the front hall, windblown and smelling of salt. Emma went downstairs to meet him, as he glanced around in alarm at the unexpected quiet. "Where'd the lads go? They're not – ?"

"They're fine, they're with Miranda and Will. They and Anne went to Miranda's house." Emma could feel her pulse tripping nervously in her throat. "They'll stay there until I can send them home. Hopefully soon."

"Aye." He glanced at her, face turning concerned. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Emma was unsettled at how easily he had been able to sense her disquiet, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. "I. . . there's something I didn't tell you earlier."

He looked unsure whether to be curious or wary as he followed her out into the courtyard again, shutting the door behind them. They remained at cautious arm's length, him waiting for her to say something and her unable to start, until at last she thought the best way to do it might be without words. She stepped in, took hold of his right arm, and pulled it around her, her back to his chest, so she didn't have to see his face. With that, silently, she pressed his warm, rough fingers to her rotund midsection.

For an instant, he clearly didn't understand – and then, all at once, he did. He jerked as if struck by lightning, made a sound somewhere between a curse and a sob, and barely seemed able to stay on his feet. His hand briefly cupped it, thumb stroking across the soft swell, before he pulled away as if he'd been burned. "What – Emma, no. No, it can't be."

"No?" Emma struggled to contain herself, to be calm, even as a voice in her head was shrieking that of course this was how he was going to react. "I didn't want – "

"My fath – he said something. After I – " Killian raised his hand to his face, then dropped it, wild-eyed. "He said – I didn't believe him, I asked Will, he said you weren't – but if he – do you mean that for bloody once, at the end, he wasn't – he wasn't lying? Oh God, and I kil. . . he was trying to stop me from – and I didn't – _I didn't believe –_ "

"Killian!" Alarmed enough to forget her own fears and reservations for the moment, Emma gripped him hard by the forearms, trying to make him look at her. "Killian, listen, I'm the reason your father was there, all right? Sam and I sent him. Because of. . . this. We found him at the wreck sites. I. . . I knew who he was. We didn't think we had any choice."

He stared at her, eyes almost black, unseeing. Not in rage, but a shock too profound to surface, unable to process, unable to accept the implications, replaying the final confrontation with Brennan in his head all over again, all the thoughts about what he could or should have done differently. That the one time he should have believed his father, he hadn't, and put it beyond any and all hope that he could ever make it right. He was trembling like a spooked horse, until he said in a voice that barely sounded like his, "Aye. He said you sent him. I know."

Some of the constriction in Emma's chest eased, if not enough to let her breathe properly. At least that wouldn't be the one crime to break them permanently apart, but Brennan's unquiet ghost loomed over them, weighing on his son's shoulders like Atlas' burden, the knowledge of unforgivable wrong – to him, at least, whether it was or not. Killian did not question if the child was his, challenge her as to whether she must have been with other men, the way anyone else might have done when faced with life-changing news of this magnitude. Instead he only whispered, "Emma. No. I can't."

"I – I didn't want to tell you because I didn't want that to be the only reason you came back. But I. . . but we. . ." Emma stopped, swallowed hard. Forced the next words out bit by bit, raw and ragged. "If you don't want to have anything to do with it, then – "

"No. I – I want it. I do. Both of you. More than anything." The words spilled out of Killian too fast to control, as if he had not meant to be this honest, but could not stop himself. "But – bloody hell! Look at me! A convicted, crippled traitor, who's burned half the Caribbean and butchered the rest, who killed his own father, who attacked the ship your lads were on and might have killed them too if he didn't find out just in time who they were! A madman and a monster, who's forsaken everything he ever believed in and every hope or good thing he ever wanted from the world! I can't pretend that doesn't exist, can't suddenly stop now! I can't do that to you! You deserve so much better, and I can't give it to you or to my own child, and it _kills_ me! It bloody kills me! In the end, I'm no better than him after all!"

"No. No, stop." Emma held onto him tighter, his shaking running through both of them like a distant avalanche. "Killian, I know what you've done. I know who you are. I'm not under any illusions. But you've somehow got yourself thinking that I can't do any wrong, that I never have, and that's just not true. You don't become a pirate captain by being a saint. No, I haven't done the same things as you, but that doesn't mean I don't understand why men do. I apprenticed under Flint, remember? What do you think I haven't seen?"

He kept staring at her with that glazed expression. "Aye," he said at last, woodenly. "Of course."

She wasn't reaching him. She could tell from those words alone that she wasn't, and she shook him, trying to break through, desperate to make him understand. "Like I said. I – I'm not asking for anything. I just. . . well, Miranda thought. . . you had a right to know."

He nodded again, though she wasn't sure he had heard anything she had just said. His eyes remained a thousand miles away, lost in some unfathomable depth, until at last he came to and smiled, the expression almost painfully brittle. "Well then, love. I've thought what's the best thing for us, and the little one."

"You have?" Emma's heart sped up. At least he wasn't running away, yet. Perhaps there was still a chance, something not quite completely gone. "What's that?"

"Aye." Killian closed his eyes for a long moment, bracing himself, as if for the worst thing he had had to do yet. "You marry Sam. He adopts the babe, and you give it the last name Bellamy – or Swan, if you prefer – to shield it from any possible association with me, and the stain of being a Jones. I'll send you money for its upkeep, and anything else you require to give it and your boys a comfortable home. But please. Let it think that Sam is its father. Don't tell it about me."

"That – _that's_ what you think? That I should lie to our child its entire life about who it really is? Have you lost your _mind?"_ Emma shook him harder. "After you know exactly how painful it is to go through that, after everything that happened with Liam? I know you can't see yourself as remotely worthy, but if that's your suggestion, you're insane. Do you think Sam would ever agree to this? That he'd be content to serve as a false flag for your child, knowing it was just because you wouldn't tell it the _truth?_ You're not a coward. You don't run. So why on earth would you think both of those things were the best idea now?"

Killian's head jerked up and his eyes blazed, until for half a second she was almost afraid of him, but the rage in his face wasn't directed at her. He turned away, rubbing a hand over his mouth, as she kept up relentlessly. "Do you think I just want to have your child and never see you or have anything to do with you again? If that was the case, there are much easier ways to do it, believe me! It's happened to me once already! I know you don't think you're worthy of coming back to the real world, of having anything good, of building a future – but you are! I don't know how we'd do it either, I don't know what it would look like, but there's – there's still a chance." Her voice cracked on the last word. "And I want to try. I want to try with you."

That snapped his head around, until he looked at her with the most pained, exhausted expression she had ever seen, as if he would rather be dead, at rest, away from the ordeal of living and losing, without the danger of having to try only to get his teeth kicked in yet again. "Swan." His own voice was soft, broken. "I know what it means for you to dare say that to someone. How hard it is. I never wanted to be another man to let you down. But it's too late for me."

"No, it's not." Emma moved forward, hard and angry and determined. "We're both here. We're both still alive. Do I have to tell you everything terrible I've ever done, so you'd believe there's the slightest chance I could know who you really are and not hate you? As I said, I have no expectations. I don't know what we'd do. Just. . . that we would."

That summoned, at last, an unutterably weary smile. "Stubborn lass." It was said with such wry, gentle affection that it made her chest ache, as if this was an argument they'd had many times before and he couldn't believe that she hadn't given up on him yet. "Bloody hell, I just don't understand what you possibly see in me."

"Well." Emma looked down. "Maybe I don't know what you see in me either."

He hesitated for the longest moment, and then, all at once, crossed the stones toward her, pulled her into his arms, and – gently, but with great purpose – brought his lips to hers. It was as if he could believe the absolute worst of himself, with great and depthless conviction that could barely be shaken by the strongest force in the world, but the one thing he would not stand for was letting _her_ believe that she was unworthy or unwanted. That he would hate himself, but he would never let her do the same. She slid her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, feeling as if she was breathing for the first time in days, in weeks, in months, as they uttered soft sounds into each other's mouths and swayed on the spot, entangled and undone. It was the first tender kiss they had ever really had, entirely different from their earlier blind, hungry, passionate ones, where they were still intending to get this over with and forget each other and go their own ways. They slowly pulled back, but didn't let go, and she nuzzled her head onto his chest, closing her eyes, allowing him to hold her. He wasn't quite touching her with his hook, as if expecting her to be repulsed, and she shifted slightly, letting it settle on her hip. Reached down to cover it with her fingers, holding it in place. "So?" she whispered. "Can we at least see what happens?"

He was silent for a long moment, his chin resting on her hair, stroking her back with his good hand. Then he let out a long sigh, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. "All right, Swan," he said. "You win. I suppose, if nothing else, we can see."

* * *

Tempting as it was to stay at the boarding house with her, Killian did not quite feel up to it yet. His head was spinning, he was utterly euphoric one moment and dazed the next, seesawing between burning joy and desperate fear. He still wasn't sure that he had not made a catastrophic mistake by agreeing to – _whatever_ , but he knew he could not really have made any other decision and lived with himself. He was grateful that she had blown his suggestion about Sam Bellamy out of the water, though he was still convinced that Sam would be much better at this than he was. That was just the impression the man gave off, and at least Killian knew that he was capable of caring for Emma, providing for her, making her happy, of not being a complete bloody mental case – none of which he was at all confident in his own abilities to pull off. But the fact that she still wanted him, that she knew who he was and it hadn't sent her running and screaming, that she wanted to try at all – _a child, bloody hell, we're having a child, I'm going to be the bloody worst but at least I won't sell them into slavery –_ it roiled around and around like a ship caught in a maelstrom, crashing from side to side, smashed and sinking. _Oh God, I am so fucked._

Leaving Emma with assurances that he would be back tomorrow, he left the boarding house and made his way to the docks. He had ordered the _Jolie_ brought in and anchored, which was attracting quite a lot of looky-loos paddling by on various crafts and seeing if they could sign aboard; it was, after all, the biggest and most powerful ship in the harbor. For that same reason, nobody was daring to trouble it openly, but nor would they be content to sit on their hands forever and let them do whatever they wished. If Killian was staying for any length of time, he would have to duly integrate himself into the local politics and power arrangements, which he had less than no desire to do. But that was a problem for not-bloody-right-now.

He reached the _Jolie_ and stepped on board, retreating to his cabin and shutting the door. He needed to be alone for a little while, even if it was usually dangerous for his head to wander unaccompanied, and he needed to actually bloody think this through, which was the last thing he had been good at doing in the recent past. He was well aware that if he committed to giving it a try with Emma, it would seriously complicate his just-as-fierce desire to hunt down Gold and Jennings, and that he could hardly make any promises about a future, whatever shape that took, if he constantly had one eye out for when the chance for revenge might most conveniently happen by. If he meant it with her – and he did, God, he bloody did – then he would have to give up the hope of punishing them for their crimes, of letting them continue to walk free and wreak havoc as long as they liked. And he didn't, in all honesty, know if he could.

There was also the matter of his crew. Hopper wasn't the only man who had found the transition to piracy uncomfortable, starting to want their old life back after the initial thrill of insubordination and adventure had worn off, but there were plenty more who had taken to the change completely and would fiercely resist any attempt to stop it or slow it down. They were not here to sit daintily about while Killian sorted out his manifold personal issues and courted a lovely lady, however clumsily. They were here because they felt the injustice as deeply as he had, what had happened to him and Liam, and they wanted to fight back against it. The hell would they think, if he suggested giving it up?

Killian leaned back in his chair, fingers burning with the need to reach for the rum bottle and medicate this away. It was entirely possible that in twenty-four hours, Emma would come to her senses, realize what a stupid thing she had done, and revoke the offer forthwith, which might clear up some of his dilemmas, but Christ, he didn't know how to stand it if she did. It was probably just because of the baby, which was fair – she must know that he would die before doing the same thing as Brennan, so she could be assured of him fulfilling his obligations. _So does this mean that this one won't eventually kill me, or will it?_ Pray God it wasn't a boy, as there were enough damaged, abandoned Jones men in the world, failed by their fathers. At least a girl would have support, a good example. _Sam could do this better. Liam could do this better. The reeling drunkard begging for alms outside the tavern could do this better._

Killian unclicked his hook, laid it aside, and eased off the brace, to perform the nightly check for infection or suppuration in his stump. It was, if you wanted to use such a word, doing well, the proud flesh hardening into an ugly ridge of scars like a dragon's scales, the clublike end twisted and stunted into something that looked like a melted wax model of a man. _Is this what you really want to give Emma? The arms you want them to lay an innocent child into?_

He looked down at his hand, which he had found himself rubbing in a rather Lady Macbeth-like fashion, still seeing the blood he couldn't get off. _When has killing anyone actually made you feel better, you stupid fuck?_ It held him together, it sustained him when he had nothing else, it had been more or less justified when he burned and sacked Antigua, but everything after that became shakier and shakier. He could still go after Gold and Jennings and hope that it was different, that everything would be solved when they were dead, but what of it? There would be a hundred, a thousand more Golds, brutal, corrupt, power-mad colonial governors. There would be just as many Jennings, violent, remorseless men who did anything for money. The British Crown would not suddenly regret all its decisions and issue a formal apology, or change its mind on the treatment of traitors. Killian would not get back his hand, or his belief in himself, or his hope for the world, or his trust in anyone. _Just two more bodies at my feet._

He groaned, poured himself a few fingers of rum, and drank it, then got up, shrugged off his leather jacket, and rolled into bed. There was too much running through his head to sleep, so he poured another, drank that as well, and finally began to sink into a haze. Then he was in a hall full of endless mirrors, could hear a child's voice calling for him, kept trying to reach them but ran into more and more mirrors, and it was getting farther and farther away. Then he looked into the mirror, realized that his face was Brennan's and the voice that had been calling for him was his own, and woke up in a cold sweat, sheets tangled, swearing.

Killian sat up, ran a shaking hand through his hair, didn't want to face the idea of closing his eyes again just yet, and stood up, pulling on his shirt and striding barefoot across the cabin to the deck. It was very early in the morning, three or four, the sea as deep and still and dark as onyx, the stars brilliant and even the harbor and Nassau itself almost quiet. His men were all asleep except for the night watch, up in the crow's nest, and Killian paced the boards by the rail, trying to wear himself out enough to sleep with no more dreams. It was almost chilly; it was October, and the autumn weather was shifting and roughening. The sky was clear, but the wind was blowing hard from the north, and the mercury in the glass was down.

Killian had finally gotten himself tired, or at least cold, enough that he was about to go back to bed, when he caught a glimpse of something moving by the harbor mouth. A ship, a small frigate by the looks of her, close enough to the shore that it could be concluded they might be trying to slip in unnoticed, very late when nobody was there to take note of their entrance. Nobody except him, of course, because irony was the greatest and most indomitable of utter bitches, and he was just debating whether to ring the bell, rouse the crew, and prepare for a potential confrontation, when something about the approaching ship caught his attention. Was it –

Oh, God almighty. No.

The frigate drew up closer, no lamps lit and no colors flying, sliding into the shadow of the larger _Jolie Rouge,_ as his hand tightened on the rail. He recognized it, sure enough. What it was doing here now, he had not the slightest notion, but perhaps he was getting a chance to start over in more ways than one, perhaps, _perhaps –_

"Liam?" He couldn't help but calling it aloud, despite himself. "Liam, is that you?"

No answer for a long moment. Then the cabin door creaked, and someone ducked out on deck, wearing a hooded black cloak that made them look rather like a ghoul – and the hands that reached to take it down were a woman's, not a man's. He could not have been more stunned to see the face beneath, as sudden foreboding shot down his spine. How on _earth –_ had she been aboard this entire time – bringing _her_ here to the same city as Emma Swan, when he and Emma had finally, tentatively reconciled, and she still wanted her dead for whatever –

"No," Regina Mills said grimly. "It's me. And I. . ." She hesitated. "I need your help."

* * *

The morning broke warm, sticky, and cloudy, with the threat of a good downpour tangibly in the sky but failing as yet to follow through. It made Emma feel hot and bloated and restless, as there didn't seem to be enough air anywhere inside, and finally, when even Sam kindly informed her that she was driving him crazy with her pacing and could she please do it elsewhere, she decided to go out to Miranda's house. It would be cooler there, she could catch up with Charlie and Henry, and as Sam's men were devotedly guarding the precincts here, it wasn't as if she would deprive him of his only protection if she left. Indeed, they all clearly thought she could use it.

Having assured herself of Sam's safety one more time, Emma rode in a cart out to Miranda's house. It wasn't that far, and she'd done it on foot many times, but due to some combination of pregnancy and weather changes, her ankles had turned sore and puffy; indeed, she was feeling overall quite swollen today, like a sponge that very much needed a good wring. At least the morning sickness had mostly ended, or this would be just wonderfully enjoyable.

She reached Miranda's property, sent the carter on his way, and headed up to knock, whereupon Miranda, surprised but pleased to see her, let her in and served everyone breakfast. She was clearly enjoying being a hostess, entertaining guests, complimenting Charlie and Henry on their lovely table manners and listening politely as they told her about life in Virginia. She possessed the innate ability to make people feel at ease, to gracefully perform the rituals of a society visit, smoothing things over if the conversation ever hit an awkward spot, as Emma wondered if she was yet again going to have to go to the ordeal of breaking the news. She was sitting with a cushion held over her stomach, but this was rather a mixed bag in terms of not drawing attention to it, and Miranda was clearly deliberately coaching her toward it when she turned to her and said, "So, my dear, what else do you suppose you should catch the lads up on?"

Emma smiled uncomfortably, and the silence stretched long enough to turn, indeed, very much awkward. And then, most unexpectedly, it was interrupted by the sound of the front door banging, boots in the hall – as they looked around in surprise and confusion, it was followed by the entrance of a bloody, filthy, disheveled, wildly grinning Flint, a fresh sword cut on his cheek and his ginger hair spilled out of its usual ponytail, waving in his face in rain-slick tendrils. He smelled like smoke and gunpowder and salt and wet leather, swaggering like a victorious gladiator, as he thumped across the room before the fascinated stares of Charlie and Henry, reached Miranda, and swooped her up, kissing her thoroughly and getting mud all over her dainty damask dress, as she made a startled noise – this was riotously uncommon for him – and pushed to be put down. "James! What on _earth!"_

Flint blinked, looked around, and only then realized their audience – including Will peering in from the kitchen, Anne peeling an apple with her knife, the boys, and Emma herself. "What the fuck?" he said. "Is this a bloody youth hostel now?"

"I _was_ going to point out that I had company," Miranda said, with some asperity. "Not that I am not delighted to see you so happy, but dare I even ask why?"

"Oh, I'd hope so." Flint unbuttoned his sodden black jacket and threw it on the davenport, narrowly missing Henry, who looked unsure whether to protest or to admire the fact of a real live famous pirate captain before his very eyes. "Forty thousand dollars. That's what we stole from the Spanish wrecks. Not five million, alas, but that's just in coins and plate, and we haven't even got around to valuing the gems yet. Who says I can't still take a good score?"

Miranda and Emma blinked. Forty thousand dollars was – at least in gross silver weight, though Britain was well known for devaluing Spanish currency on the exchange – close to equal rate with pound sterling, and as even the Duke of Newcastle, one of the richest noblemen in England, only enjoyed £25,000 annual revenue in comparison, this was that much or more. Furthermore, as all the other scroungers had come up with about £1,750 combined, this instantly made Flint by far the wealthiest pirate on Nassau. Not, however, that he should forget one pertinent fact, which Emma took it upon herself to point out. "Half that money belongs to Bellamy."

Flint looked at her in annoyance. "For what, getting some tight-arse Spaniards drunk?"

"No, for putting the _Asunción_ out of commission with barely any bloodshed, thus assuring it couldn't do anything to stop you. You _did_ see its mast break, didn't you? And as he was fairly badly injured in the whole business, I'd say he's earned it."

Flint reached into his pocket, pulled out a golden doubloon, and flipped it at her. "Buy him a drink. That should help with the pain."

"I am _not_ letting you take it all, just so you know." Emma stood up. Charlie and Henry kept watching, as this of course was the first time they had seen her in her native environment, going toe to toe with the man who had taught her to be a pirate. "Unless you never want to have another alliance in your life. Sam did as much as you. So pay him what you owe."

Flint surveyed her with a faint, sardonic smile, looked her up and down, then nodded at her stomach. "So is that his spawn, or Hook's? I'd guess the latter, as I don't think you've known Bellamy long enough to already be popping a belly, or is his seed just that magical?"

"What?" Charlie said.

"What?" Henry said.

 _"James!"_ Miranda said.

"Oh," Will said. "You _dick."_

"I – " Emma felt her cheeks starting to scald. "I don't really know that that's any of your business, or relevant to paying Bellamy the agreed-upon share of the treasure. So if you think you know anything about what's – "

"No, no." Flint grinned again. "Believe me, I do understand. Quite shrewd of you. You're a woman, you were captured by the Navy, you needed to avoid any threat of a hanging, so it was simply the wise thing to ensure you got up the duff. Were you planning on turning him pirate too, just in case, or was that the accident?"

"You – that's not in the least what happened, or what he thinks – "

"Isn't it?" Flint had his teeth well into the back of her neck, and he knew it. "That's not what I seem to recall him saying, after our duel on the docks in Jamaica. Or has the impending domestic bliss and spirit of familial solicitude caused him to charitably overlook it? You did do quite a good job with our friend, Mas. Hook. Better, perhaps, than you were ever expecting. Literally."

"You what?" Charlie looked at Emma in horror. Clearly, he had been more or less prepared to accept that she had become a pirate from noble intentions and a desire to give them a good life, and done her best to be honorable in the course of it. The idea, however, of her being a callous femme fatale, someone who destroyed men's lives for her own gain, manipulated herself into a convenient neck-saving pregnancy, and turned Killian Jones into the shattered husk that he was now – that was leagues and leagues away from any sister he had ever knew or respected. Of course, that wasn't what had happened, but the fact that she had at one point considered doing it in just that way felt like a slap. "Emma. . . _how_ much have you been lying to us?"

"I'm not! It's not like that, Flint's twisting the truth in every direction he possibly can, just as he usually does!" Emma whirled on him. "This is low, even for you."

"How is it my fault? Hadn't you shared the happy news already?"

"James." Miranda rose to her feet in a swirl of skirts. "This is outrageous. If you ever want to sleep in my bed or even stay beneath my roof again, you'll apologize to Emma, pay Samuel Bellamy what you owe him for his assistance, and think very carefully what you'll do with this wealth, aside from making yet more enemies. And this all in my house. _Shame on you."_

Flint backed down, ever so slightly, though the look he threw at Emma clearly said that this was far from over. "Apologies," he said. "Congratulations are, of course, in order. I suppose we should all very much hope that the child takes after you."

Emma stared back at him icily. "Where did you anchor the _Walrus?_ I'm guessing not in the main harbor. You'd never be so careless as to sail right in with a loaded hold of treasure and leave it ripe for the picking. And where are Bellamy's men that we sent to ensure the spoils were divided fairly? Accidentally fell overboard on the way back to Nassau?"

"They're fine," Flint said irritably. "I promised the treasure would be apportioned as soon as I met their captain face to face. Not that that stopped them from hassling me all the way home."

Emma raised a cutting eyebrow, as if to say that since Bellamy's men were used to sailing with a captain who shared information freely, followed their democratic vote even when it sometimes conflicted with his personal opinion, won them all the wealth, women, fame, and glory they wanted, genuinely enjoyed having them around, and had never killed any of them on the sly and made it look like an accident, of course they would feel justified in applying hot pincers to Flint's behind in re: his failure in all these areas. "Oh yes," she said. "I'm sure it's been absolutely dreadful. Where's the _Walrus?"_

Flint hesitated. "In the same anchorage we used before, when we retrieved Miranda for our trip to Jamaica," he said, after a moment. "What, are you going to climb down yourself and make sure I parcel out the hold then and there?"

"No," Emma said. "You're going to take me and Miranda down there, we will observe you load a strongbox, and then the three of us, along with Bellamy's men, will deliver it to him at his current lodgings in Nassau." She smiled pleasantly at him. Sore ankles or no sore ankles, she didn't care, they were doing this. "Today."

Flint opened his mouth, looked at Miranda, got absolutely no help, and shut it, looking disgruntled. That was how, forty minutes later, the three of them were once more descending the bluff toward the _Walrus,_ Will and Anne having been left at the house to guard the boys. Emma knew it was going to be an unpleasant conversation with Charlie when they got back; she had already tried to assure him that she would tell him everything, and gotten only a cold stare and pointed turn on his heel. _Thank Flint for that, naturally._ It was solely due to Miranda that she hadn't strangled him years ago (and, she was well aware, vice versa).

They made it to the _Walrus,_ where most of the crew had already stuffed their pockets and rushed ashore to purchase the services of every whore they saw, which made Flint scowl and swear. Not for the whores, as that was to be expected, but the fact that a lot of loudly boasting pirates spilling Spanish gold down every available hole would ensure that absolutely everybody knew what had happened within the day. If he had any hopes of keeping the prize secret, or having time to work out what to do with it, that had rather literally gotten fucked, and he whirled on Billy, who had had the unhappy task of informing him, with a wrathful expression. "Couldn't you keep them here for, I don't know, three bloody hours?"

"Captain," Billy said. "If you think I was putting myself between the shore and the fuck rush, you really have no idea what I am and am not willing to endure for you."

Flint continued to glare, even as Billy looked over at Emma and raised a blonde eyebrow. "Glad you've made it back from your misadventures. Didn't I see you on the _Whydah_ earlier,though?"

"Aye," Emma said. "I was – well, am – with Sam." She caught Billy's eye meaningfully. "Flint's been obstinate about paying him what he owes."

"Really?" Billy said. "How surprising. I'll get the strongbox."

With that, he fetched it, opened it, and began, with Emma's assistance, digging into the sacks and crates containing the plunder. Every time Flint looked as if he wanted Billy to not take a particular item of treasure, Billy took exactly that item of treasure and put it in Bellamy's share, until Emma had to admire the masterclass in quiet chain-pulling going on here. Flint couldn't do anything about it with Miranda, Emma, and Bellamy's men all watching, and if anyone had earned the right to antagonize him a little, it was Billy. About the dozenth time he had whisked out some nice bit of gold or coin that Flint had been clearly eyeing up for himself, Flint growled, "I get the fucking _point,_ Bones. You can stop now."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about." Billy, seeing Miranda looking at a lovely silver-and-pearl necklace, handed it to her, even as she was startled and tried to give it back. Seeing Flint looking at a fat emerald in an ornate gilded setting, he put it in Bellamy's box. He tossed in a few more handfuls of silver, checked the remaining store, said, "That should be about it," and then added a priceless black diamond, just for good measure. While Flint was clearly thinking that the next time he tried to drown Billy, he would hold him under the water himself rather than just expecting him to fall off the ship and sink the fuck to the bottom, Billy worked the catches and locked the strongbox shut, then hoisted it himself, muscles straining. "Let's go."

They traipsed back above deck, got the strongbox ashore, and one of the men vanished to steal a cart, which they loaded it into. Flint, Miranda, Billy, and Emma climbed aboard, as Bellamy's dozen spread out on the road ahead to make sure nobody was lying in ambush along the way. They didn't draw attention, and managed to make it into Nassau uneventfully, but Emma still looked around warily as they rode up to the boarding house, reconnoitered with Sam's men, and carried the box inside. She went upstairs with them, saw that it was delivered, and asked if Killian had been back yet. To her surprise, and somewhat to her disquiet, the answer was no.

"Well," Sam said. "I know he was planning to, so if he hasn't, it means something might have gone sideways. I'm sure it hasn't, though," he added hastily, seeing Emma's face. "How on earth did you get Flint to cough all this up so promptly?"

"I had help." Emma related the story, which made Sam laugh until his shoulder hurt, and he had to bite on his lower lip, while shaking with suppressed giggles and grimacing. Blood spotted his bandages, but not as much, and Hopper had stitched the gash once the swelling went down. It looked far from comfortable, but at least it was healing.

"Ah, well," Sam said at last, still chuckling. "For once, Flint learned his lesson about baiting a mother bear. I could have warned him it never ends well, fighting with women. I'm sorry he managed to make your brother think the worst of you, though. I'll have a talk with him, if it would help. Sometimes you believe it least when it comes from the person who means the most."

"It might," Emma admitted. Charlie was more likely to hear Sam out than her, as he probably knew much better how to talk to miffed eighteen-year-old boys. "I wasn't even expecting to see them, and now he thinks I'm the Scarlet Whore of Babylon. But I wasn't going to let Flint get away with cheating you."

Sam squeezed her hand. "Of course you weren't. And I would have had to deal with him rather firmly if you didn't, which would not be good for my present invalid state. I'm fairly sure that punching someone in the nose with a bad shoulder is not known to aid in its recovery."

"You have another arm, you know."

"Aye, but I would have had to punch him with both."

Emma laughed. "By the way, I need to turn some of the goods that you stole for me off Leopold White's ship into cash, so I can send Charlie and Henry back to Virginia with money for next year. I'd rather do it myself, since at least I'm known around here, and Eleanor Guthrie would likely give me a fair rate on the exchange. So if I can go back to the _Whydah –_ "

"Of course you can," Sam pointed out. "You're the captain right now, aren't you?"

"Aye, I suppose." She still wasn't taking it for granted. "But I didn't want to just – "

At that moment, there was a sharp rap on the door, and without waiting for an answer, Billy opened it and ducked under the lintel; he had to bend nearly in half. "Hey," he said. "Sorry to interrupt, but there's – there's something going on in the harbor, and I'm not sure it's good. I think we should be getting on our way, and now, before it turns any worse."

"Oh?" Emma's heart turned an unpleasant somersault, seeing as she had just been wondering if there was some more sinister reason for Killian's absence. "And what – leave Sam?"

"I'll be fine, love," Sam said. "Nobody's getting in here. You go."

Emma hesitated, reached over and hugged him quickly with one arm, then got up, not without one quick look back, and followed Billy downstairs. Flint and Miranda were standing in the alley, and as Flint did not even have a sardonic remark to make at her return, and was instead glaring like hell and fury at the harbor below, Emma knew it had to be important. What the devil was possibly enough to –

She peered down the road, and felt her heart, yet again, skip a beat. This time, however, it was for a far less pleasant reason. She recognized the ship rocking insouciantly at anchor, far too bloody well. No way to mistake it. It was the _Bathsheba,_ which had never been seen in Nassau before – but what the hell, what the _hell_ was Jennings finally doing here, daring to enter openly? Launching an assault on the pirates' republic under Gold's orders? But if so, why was the other ship, the most infernal collaboration that could be imagined – why was Vane's _Ranger_ with him? Had they joined forces? Had a good raid on the Spanish camp – possibly better than even Flint's own – and come here to start a new era? Throw all old allegiances aside, and rise?

"Them?" Emma swiveled to stare at Flint, their previous argument forgotten in the face of this threat. Jennings wanted everyone she cared about dead, Vane wouldn't shed a single tear if Flint dropped like a stone, and looking across the rest of the harbor, she couldn't see the _Jolie Rouge._ It was gone, whether out to sea again or the newcomers had done something to it or Killian had thought better of whatever he'd agreed to on her behalf, or – she didn't know what, could feel her heart pounding short and sharp in her dry mouth. _"Them?"_

Flint jerked his head at the gathering crowd, more flocking in every moment, as Vane and Jennings themselves were holding court atop the harbor wall. Emma took his meaning, and they, Billy, and Miranda put their hoods up, blending into the throng. As they came closer, they could hear that Jennings was giving some sort of speech, and while he was a competent orator, it wasn't the thrill of wordplay alone – or possibly at all – that was drawing such a swarm. They were already being jostled from side to side, and Flint caught Emma's arm as she stumbled; if she fell, she'd be trampled before she could get up again. Along with whatever was going on, with this –

"Eighty-seven thousand," Jennings was saying. "To be precise, as nearly as we can tally it, £87,500. I assure you that no man or captain or pretender, whatever he says, can come remotely close to matching such a sum. £87,500 in Spanish treasure. Let that sink in, lads."

 _What? No. No._ Flint himself had taken a good chunk, but this was four times that, if not more. His status as the richest captain on Nassau had lasted less than six hours, as Vane and Jennings had clearly had a raid successful beyond anybody's wildest dreams. That was why every man-jack on the entire island was crowding in to hear what they had to say. They could buy everyone's loyalty, run a new pirate empire, change the rules, destroy their enemies – nearly anything they wanted, with that insane sums of money. And Emma, even for the best reasons and wanting to see her friend get his fair share, had just coerced Flint into giving away half of his.

"And so," Jennings went on. "I can imagine that every single one of you miserable maggots are slobbering to join our crews now, by whatever method you think would possibly impress us. I can save you time and tell you that there's only one, and spaces will be _quite_ limited. So if you want to be richer than Croesus, listen carefully, because here's your chance. Kill one of the following, and the wealth is yours:

James Flint.

Miranda Barlow.

Killian Jones, alias Captain Hook.

Emma Swan.

Liam Jones.

Regina Mills.

Samuel Bellamy.

Will Scarlet.

Got it? Good.

Happy hunting."


	25. XXV

**-XXV-**

The countless cays, reefs, islands, inlets, and atolls of the northern Bahamas, the Abacos, were almost unmappable, some as small as a tide-washed boulder and others large enough to be clad in thick, impenetrable jungle, with sandy lowlands or steep, high cliffs. Someone could live here their whole life and not discover every potential channel, hideout, sandbar, or tide race, and indeed the forbidding, labyrinthine nature of the place was why the English government had given up in frustration after fifty years of failing to maintain any cohesive authority over it, leaving it ripe for the pirates to take over. Killian had been here, not that long ago, on his way back to Eleuthera to collect Liam, right before the return to Antigua and the fatal confrontation with Gold. That was when he had been trying vainly to shed the ghost of Hook, to turn the _Jolie Rouge_ back into the _Imperator,_ to forget about Emma. That he should return now, in his present circumstances was. . . well, _ironic_ was one word for it. _Fucking hell_ was another, or rather two.

He squinted warily at the particular island they were approaching, one of the larger ones, with a rugged enough interior for the highlands to be blanketed in thick tropical fog. They had sailed for the rest of the night and well into the daytime, but they still hadn't yet seen the sun, which remained barricaded behind the ominous iron-grey anvils of clouds to the west. Regina had not been in the mood to supply details, but the gist of her message was clear. Liam had been badly wounded at the Spanish wrecks, stabbed by – well, it didn't matter who. They had been there because – likewise unimportant. Just that he had been hurt gravely enough that she didn't think he could make it to Nassau, or that it would do him especial good if they did, and had detoured him here instead, because – never mind. All that mattered was that his life was very much at stake, and she needed Killian to – again, she'd fill him in later. Follow the _Jewel_ out to sea, and perhaps they could make it in time. If not. . .

Killian, therefore, was just as in the dark about the errand now as he had been when they set out. He had sent a man ashore before they left Nassau, to tell Emma that something had happened with Liam – he had to trust both that the message would reach her, and that she would understand its importance. Having had eight hours to think about it, he had realized that while he had absolutely no reason to expect this family reunion to go well – though it could hardly go worse than his last one – it didn't matter. If Liam's life hung in the balance, and there was something, anything he could do to save it, no matter the lies and the heartbreak and the devastating denouement of their last meeting, he had to go. Had to try. If he was being so ludicrous and brave and stupid as to do it with Emma, he could do no less with his brother.

Thus, here he was, looking at this mist-clad, heavily treed, steep-sided, oversized stone ziggurat in the middle of bloody nowhere and wondering who the hell Regina had left Liam with – surely the Baymen didn't come this far north? Those were a wild and dangerous people of uncertain origin, who lived on the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico and along the Spanish main, who paddled huge dugout canoes and attacked any ship that came near – even the heavily armed Spanish convoys preferred to steer clear of entanglements with them. Or she had simply cut his throat and dumped his body in the wilderness, and lured Killian in to do the same to him. But as they drew nearer, he could just make out well-hidden fortifications among the jungle, pirogues and rafts tied up at a rough quay, and a narrow dirt path hewed out of the mountainside, vanishing almost immediately in the trackless wild. He didn't know who, but _someone_ was here.

The _Jolie_ could not come all the way into the shallows, and so they anchored just inside the breakers, where the sheltering arms of the bay formed a calm emerald oasis. Killian climbed warily into the ship's boat with a few of his men, hand-picked to be the ones he could trust to have his back if this went suddenly and spectacularly wrong. They rowed across the eerie, glassy water to the _Jewel,_ where Regina, after a quiet word to her own crew, climbed over the side and joined them. Then they headed in, hit the beach, and jumped off to wade ashore, pulling the boat up and onto the weed-wracked sand. It was very still, uncomfortably hot, and nothing moved in the heavy green shadows. Out of patience to be dragged hither and yon to mysterious islands with very little explanation, nerves wracked raw, Killian whirled on Regina. "Christ, are you going to tell me a single bloody thing now, or – ?"

"Shh!" She jerked her hand up, glaring at him, as she continued to study the trees. Then she put two fingers in her mouth and blew a short, sharp whistle.

The next instant, Killian realized that the apparently deserted cove was not nearly so deserted as all that. The underbrush shifted and changed and shaped into eight or ten men – tall, muscled, holding spears and bows, clearly the sentry duty. Black men, some looking as if they had come straight from the Gold Coast of Africa so well trafficked by European slavers, others with the lighter color of mulattos or mestizos, and Killian then also realized who they must be. Maroons, freed or runaway slaves, who formed villages on hidden, remote islands such as this. Pirates were known to make alliances with them from time to time, as they all had a common enemy, and some captains, like Sam, freed the slaves on every ship they took. Others kept them and sold them off as callously as any overseer, apparently deciding that the opportunity to make a profit was worth being a complete bloody hypocrite. But for the most part, free Negroes were a fairly common sight aboard pirate ships, and another reason that genteel civilization regarded them so dimly. Equality of the races was just too horrible to contemplate, apparently.

This _was_ quite interesting, but Killian was still baffled as to why Regina had brought Liam to a slave hideout (though the heartbreaking aptness of it did not escape him), much less why the Maroons would have agreed to take in a white man, a Royal Navy captain, even one without the slightest interest in returning them to bondage. But then the row of sentries parted, and another man emerged – a man that Killian, to his total shock, recognized. He had seen him only once before in his life, in very precarious circumstances, but there was no way he would forget. It was the slave – well, ex-slave now, clearly – he had shot the guard in the head to save, him and the little girl, back in the burning slave market during his first visit to Jamaica. The one after which Emma had in turn shot the redcoat to keep his secret, and he had ended up a prisoner in the cave with Will Scarlet and the other man. Bloody _hell._

"Good morning," the Maroon said, further increasing Killian's surprise; he spoke like an educated society gentleman of London. "You would be the brother, then."

"I – yes." Killian stared at him. "Did you – are you – "

"My name is Lancelot." The Maroon smiled faintly. "I was brought to England as a young boy, and raised as somewhat of a pet by an indulgent master with a taste for Arthurian myth and literature. He freed me when he died, I lived in London for a few years, then decided to return to Africa in hopes of finding my family. While there, I was snatched by the slavers and taken across the Middle Passage to be sold in Jamaica. Whereupon, thanks to you – " he inclined his head slightly – "I was not. I recognized your brother when she brought him in, as he was with you in the raid. We agreed to do our best for him, in payment of that debt."

"You know them?" Killian looked at Regina sharply. "How?"

"My father was a mestizo," she said stiffly. "Spanish Caribbean, from Puerto Rico. He had connections, certain sympathies. This is where I get my vodou. . . medicines."

 _Medicines?_ Killian doubted that in the extreme, as whatever Regina was capable of doing with such stuff, it certainly wasn't healing. He wondered if her supplier knew what she got up to with what they gave her. Though if they were planning to save Liam's life with it, he should keep his bloody mouth shut. To Lancelot he said, "The little girl. . . was that your daughter? Sister?"

"Neither," Lancelot said. "Just another orphan child. Her mother died during the crossing, and as she was worthless on her own, the slavers would have thrown her overboard to save on feeding her. I claimed that she was my niece, and I wouldn't let them. Does it matter?"

"I – no." Killian looked down. While he and Liam had had no good time of their servitude whatsoever, they had never endured anything remotely comparable to the horror of the slave ships. At least a white bondsman theoretically had the chance of paying off his indenture one day, and was regarded _as_ a man, whereas the black slave was mere chattel. While the early years of the American colonies had run largely on white indentured laborers, mostly Irish, Welsh, and Scots in their perpetual trouble with English law or poor families who sold themselves for passage to the New World, overseers could not control them, break them, abuse them as easily as they wanted. With Negroes, no such tender sensibilities applied, and it gave the white laborers someone to feel superior to and blame for their woes, rather than their wealthy, brutal, plantation-owning overlords. Thus indentured servants became slaves, and faint hopes of freedom became none. The true and towering atrocity of the system was almost too much to fathom.

"Well then." Lancelot shrugged. "If you would. You and the lady may come with me. Your men will have to wait on the beach."

Killian paused, nodded, instructed them to do as ordered, and followed Lancelot up the path, Regina behind him and half the sentries falling in as rearguard, the rest resuming their watch posts on the shore. It was a steep, treacherous climb, and with only one hand, it made for even slower and more unbalanced going. He could see that anyone trying to get up this way to attack the Maroons would be a sitting duck for archers in the trees above, and he was not surprised that Lancelot had decided to stay here, rather than return to a more or less materially comfortable life in London. Why go willingly back into the cage, put your chains back on, live like a zoological exhibit among the gawking masses? There was no support in common law for slavery on actual English soil, and not much practice, but the scale of it in England's overseas holdings more than obliterated any thread of smug moral superiority they might think of enjoying on this issue. In London, Lancelot would never be a man, only a boy, patronized and put down, barely one step above the two-headed goat or bearded lady as a fairground curiosity. Here, among his own folk, he was able to hold his head as proudly high as his legendary namesake.

It was another several minutes until, Killian and Regina both out of breath, they reached the top of the path, which seemed to abut impassably against a buttress of pale white limestone – until they saw that it continued in, the crack making a haunting whistling sound with the air blowing through, a welcome respite from the motionless murk. They ducked inside, following an even narrower track, emerged in thick jungle on the other side, walked for another ten minutes, and finally sloped down into a proper cave, this one well underground, rich and dark and smelling of living things and mud and mystery. It was as dark as the Devil's armpit for nearly a hundred yards, Killian edging along with hand and hook blindly outstretched and hoping he didn't plunge into a chasm. Then up ahead he began to see torchlight, flickering in wild shadows on the slick walls, and emerged into a sprawling subterranean chamber. At the far end, on a natural throne sculpted from the smooth flowstone, the man who was plainly the chief of the Maroons, staff in hand and collar glittering with gold, sat impassively waiting.

Lancelot drew them up before him, and Killian offered a cool nod. The chief looked just as coolly back. Then he said, "So, is this the one?"

"Yes." Lancelot looked at Killian. "This is our – well, you may call him a king, if you wish. Poseidon."

"God of the sea?" Killian could detect either Lancelot's, or another of the educated Maroons', influence in this choice of regnal name. "I must have prayed to you at least a few times, then."

Poseidon's gaze remained unreadable, sizing him up. "Why did you shoot the guard in the slave market on Jamaica, Killian Jones?"

He shouldn't have been surprised that they knew his name, as after all Regina must have told them, but it still took him off guard. He had a feeling that Liam's fate might ride on his answer, and so he chose his words very carefully. "Because of the. . . the injustice of it. Because when I was eight, my father sold my brother and I into servitude, in exchange for a rowboat to flee during the night. Because I spent the next ten years in that bondage, until we. . . until Liam killed our captors and got us into the Royal Navy. Because even then, before I became Hook – " he held up his left arm – "I wasn't going to bloody stand there and let the bastards win one more time. Not when I had a gun in my hand, and my choice before me."

Poseidon took this in, still implacable. Then he raised a hand, and a lovely young woman with long black hair stepped out from beside his throne. He said something in a low voice, and she nodded, then hurried down one of the passages. Seeing Killian looking after her, Poseidon said, "My daughter, Ursula. She was born here, free, has never had to know the horror of chains. And yet, this is the only palace I can give her, the only home. No Royal Navy for her, no honorable service. Outside here, her life is worth less than the flap of a butterfly's wing, and there is nothing she could ever do to change it. Not while she is a woman, and bears the color of a slave."

Killian did not know what to say to that. But he could not deny a deep curiosity about the place, not that they were likely willing to tell him much. He still wanted to know who had bloody stabbed his brother, why they had been at the Spanish wrecks, and a host of other things, but as trying to interrogate Regina right now would clearly get him nowhere, he restrained. Instead he looked at Poseidon and said, "If it makes any difference, I intend to do the same as I did on Jamaica, at any further opportunities I should have. Your enemies are mine, and I will never absolve them of their crimes. If you do not trust my word, you may at least trust my rage."

Poseidon evaluated him for another tenuous moment. Then he said, "You remind me of that other one. Bellamy, was it not? Sam Bellamy."

"Bellamy?" Yet again, Killian shouldn't have been surprised, but he was. "You know him?"

"Only by tales, in my case," Poseidon said. "But we have no quarrel with Black Sam, and hold him as an ally and friend. His ship, the _Whydah,_ was a fully loaded slaver when he took it, and he opened its holds and set them free. Earlier, when he encountered another slave ship after its wreck, some had drowned and some ran off and some made their way elsewhere and some died of their confinement. He took the remaining twenty-five aboard, made them a full part of his crew, and allowed them to share in breaking the chains off their brothers when they captured the _Whydah._ Some of those men have families here. It matters."

"He's my. . ." Killian wondered if he could use the word. "My friend. He's taken care of the woman I. . ." He hesitated, but there was no way around it, not any more. "The woman I love."

Something flickered in both Regina and Poseidon's faces at that, of decidedly different natures. Poseidon considered him a moment more, then asked, "What did you think, when Lancelot said that his owner raised him as a pet? Did that seem right to you?"

"I thought it was exactly the right bloody word, yes." Killian tipped his head back and met the king's eyes. "I'm quite sure that someone else would have asked him if he didn't mean 'son.' As if he would ever have considered the man who bought him as property, took him from his family, didn't manumit him until he died, and made him into a curiosity as his father. There are no good slave owners, Your Majesty. No man with any bone of moral conscience can hold another as chattel, and see no wrong in it by telling himself that he treats them _nicely._ So no. They're not good or benevolent or fatherly. They are cowards, and they are nearly worse than those who at least admit the brutality of their desires. It's a pity Lancelot didn't stab the bastard in his sleep, but no more than that I never stabbed Captain Freeman or Captain Campbell or Captain Silver. In all cases, it would have been just as deserved."

At long last, something almost like approval lit in Poseidon's gaze, as if he had been testing and prodding and pushing to see if Killian could understand a thing about them, and had finally been convinced that perhaps he might. He leaned back, rubbing his chin, and then beckoned to the side passage. Ursula stepped out of it, leading four men who had a litter hoisted on their shoulders. On it, unconscious and blood-stained and pale as a wraith, was Liam.

Killian bit down an exclamation just in time. Next to him, Regina also had a visceral reaction, which surprised him, though she recollected herself almost immediately. But it was clear from her face as she looked at Liam that she was worried about him – and it was something stronger than one would expect for whatever bloody business arrangement they must have taken on. Recalling what he had heard about Captain Colter when they first crossed paths with Regina, Killian couldn't help but abruptly wonder if he was not the only one here who was struggling with an old, desperate desire for revenge, against the flickering possibility of a new life and future, a new love. Wondering which one was more worth fighting for, and if it was even still a chance. It unsettled him to realize potential kinship with Madam Regina bloody Mills, especially when the lucky gentleman in question was his brother. But then, he at least supposed that he didn't know what was going on with them, any more than they had any notion what had truly been happening with him, and the interrogation could wait until Liam was awake for it.

The Maroons carried Liam into the center of the cave, set him down, and moved to stand to each side of him. Then another shadow wavered on the floor, briefly seeming to contain multitudes, dancing and witching shapes and phantoms, until it resolved into one, and a man emerged. By the way everyone, even Poseidon, snapped to respectful attention, Killian knew that he must be the most powerful person here, though he looked almost too young to hold such responsibility. Slender and handsome, with glowing golden-brown skin and black curls, a dazzling smile and boyish charm, but an ineffable air of mystery and something close to. . . well, not mercilessness, as that would imply brutality or violence or active malice, none of which really seemed to be present. But there was certainly a sense as if he was almost detached, aloof, above petty human concerns or limitations, right or wrong, fears or failures. It was then that Killian worked out who he must be: a _bokor,_ a vodou sorcerer. Possibly also the houngan, the high priest and spiritual head of the Maroon community, at least among those of its people who practiced vodou. Others observed assorted African tribal beliefs, and still others from Northern Africa were Mussulmen, known as elegant and educated men who were most often responsible for starting slave revolts. The remaining few were Christian, but no matter your faith, this was an individual of formidable and not-to-be-trifled-with talents. Killian glanced at Lancelot. "Who is he, exactly?"

"He has a name, yes. A secret one. For now, though. . ." Lancelot considered, then smiled wryly. "For now, you may call him Merlin."

Killian supposed that was fitting, and watched tensely as more Maroons filed into the chamber and took up position, seating themselves to all sides. A pretty young woman (her name seemed to be Tiana) was the mambo, or high priestess, and Merlin's assistant, as Lancelot remarked that she had had an interesting encounter with Baron Samedi when she first began her training. Killian wasn't quite sure what that meant, and the activity faded into a distant hum as he stared at his brother. Then he turned on Regina. "Who stabbed him? You? Lovers' quarrel gone wrong?"

"No." She looked as if she wanted to snap, but held herself in check. "It's a long story, but. . . did you know that you have a younger half-brother? Also named Liam? Nasty, savage little beast."

"I. . ." Killian felt an avalanche crash into his stomach. "He's _here?_ In the fucking Caribbean?"

Regina looked at him even more sharply. "You _know_ about him?"

"Aye. Only. . . briefly." He was in no mood to share the terrible story of what had happened, what he had learned, just before he killed Brennan, but somehow he found it wrenched out of him nonetheless. "Don't you bloody tell anyone, ever," he finished. "But if you're saying that now the little bastard is _h –_ "

"It gets better," Regina said, with black amusement. "He's a member of Jennings' crew. Devoted to him. Tried to kill Liam after thinking – correctly, I'll give the foul child that – that he meant to do Jennings harm."

"Wait. The two of you were – what the bloody _hell_ were you doing with _Jennings?"_

"We. . . found him in Boston." A faint flush was creeping up Regina's neck. "We – all right, _I –_ saw the intelligence and strategic value in taking him aboard and. . . inducing his cooperation."

"Inducing his cooperation? That's what you mean by vodou 'medicines,' isn't it? You got mind-control drugs or potions or who the fuck knows what from Merlin – I've heard of the zombie legends, I know there are brews that can do that – and tried to use them on _Jennings?"_

"Oh, so you're judging me now?" Regina snapped. "Drugging one of our enemies is more reprehensible than killing entire shiploads of them and burning both Antigua and Jamaica? No, it didn't work, but you have no right to criticize me."

Killian stared back at her seethingly, prevented from anything more drastic by Liam still lying just a few feet away, and his painful awareness that after striving to gain Poseidon's trust, he could not jump for the throat of a woman that, for better or worse, they also worked with. If he had to push her into Liam's arms to get her to give up her vendetta against Emma – no, that wasn't fair, but it didn't mean he wasn't tempted. "I haven't forgotten that you hired us to sink the _Blackbird_ and kill Captain Swan. As I am sure you know, your beloved Jennings already took care of the first part. But lay a finger on Emma, and you're dead."

"Oh, so it's _Emma_ now, is it?" Regina's expression was one of poisonous sweetness. "That sounds like quite a story."

"Aye, and it's none of your fucking business. I just wanted to make quite clear how it was."

She looked as if she wanted to take his hook and split him from nape to navel with it (and he would like to see her bloody try) but clenched her fists instead. The Maroons had almost finished the preparation for whatever ritual they seemed about to conduct, and Tiana beckoned Regina to sit and Killian to step into the middle of the circle, alongside Liam. "We are going to summon the loa," she explained. "When they are here, we serve them with food and gifts, each honoring their certain spirit, and in exchange, they do favors. Grant visions or prophecy or speech with the dead. If one of them wants to ride you, you must let it. We will try to save your brother, but you must trust us, no matter what. He is a long way gone, and this will not be easy."

"I'll do whatever you ask of me." Killian looked at her unflinchingly. "I'm not afraid."

Tiana smiled, half to herself, touching his chin and studying his face. "No, Killian Jones," she said after a moment, letting him go. "That you are not."

The last Maroons sat down, and at a signal from Merlin, they began to beat drums, a low, steady rumble that echoed in the deep. He raised a torch and started to speak in a clear, ringing voice, though Killian did not recognize the language, uttering a long incantation with precision and potency. There were other elements to perform, actions and words rolling like a far-off thunderstorm, as distant wind sighed through the cave and guttered the torches, and the Maroons continued to chant and drum. Then Merlin said something else, and they fell silent. Killian stood tensely, chills flooding up and down his body, waiting. . . waiting. . . _waiting._ Nothing seemed to be happening, but he didn't dare to move.

For a moment more, silence. Then Tiana turned to him, but something in her face was not the young priestess she had been before. Older, softer, tentative, tender, she opened her mouth and in a voice that he hadn't heard in twenty-three years, said, "Killian?"

Every hair on his body stood up. He went cold from head to heel. He didn't know what the devil (possibly literally) this was, and didn't care. Could feel himself, ever so slightly, beginning to shake. Not meaning to, but unable to stop himself, he whispered, "Mama?"

Her eyes lit up, until he had the utter and unsettling conviction that it was not Tiana who was looking at him, that it was – that it _was –_ as she moved to him, and her hand brushed across his cheek, Killian sucked in a shattered breath and felt it like lightning in his soul. In an instant he was five years old again, and Liam was ten, and they were in that little cottage by the sea in County Louth, Ireland, and Mama was as pale and withered as a winter rose in the bed, and she told them, made them swear, to take care of each other, to always be there for each other. The priest was there too, Killian smelled the oil of the wooden rosary beads and the starch of his cassock, and then he was running and he was out on the beach and he crawled into his hidden place by the seals' rock and stayed there long past dark, until Liam came to find him. Told him hoarsely that it was over now. That she was gone. At peace. _At peace._ At bloody _peace._ As if that made it better. As if it that made it worth bearing.

He'd screamed, kicked. Swore, struggled, wanted to run into the freezing water, wanted it to close over his head. Liam held onto him, voice choked with tears as he made Killian promise that they had to do what she said, they had to. He sang that song Mama used to sing to them at night, until Killian finally stopped fighting, curled up in his arms, and cried until he was sick. He remembered the wet earth in the graveyard, the dull intonation of the Latin prayers, the way their father's face had looked. As if from that day on, Brennan Jones had never quite been the same again. As if something had switched off, and he did what he had done.

"Killian," his mother said again, with such unbelievable gentleness. He couldn't fathom why she wouldn't be furious with him. "Do you remember what I told you, love? The last time?"

He could barely make himself nod. His eyes brimmed over with tears, and he couldn't even move to smudge them away. "You made us promise. . . to take care of each other."

"Aye. So I did." She smiled. "I need you to do that for me now. The loa are here. You must follow them, wherever they want to take you. You need to go down into the darkness, my brave, sweet boy. You need to go down there, and save your brother."

"I. . ." He was at a loss for words. "I – I can't. I've gone too far already. I won't be able to get back out. Liam was always the one who. . . who kept me out of it."

"I know," his mother said. "But you are so much stronger than you know, and now it's your turn. He needs you. He's only a man, so much as you are. Go. Jump, child. Jump."

"Mama – " He raised a hand, overcome with the unspeakable hunger to touch her one more time, to feel her fingers clasp around his, to see her face, to hear her laughter. "Don't leave me."

"I never have." Her voice was softer now, fading, not quite in time with Tiana's mouth. "You know I never have, and I never will. We can't waste time, my love. Now. Go. Go!"

Killian heard a faint rushing in his ears, as if standing before an oncoming storm. It grew louder and longer and stronger, and then it was coming over him, and then he was falling. He might have screamed, but he didn't make a sound, just kept plunging, like a rock thrown down a well. Every time he thought he'd hit the bottom at last, he hadn't, just kept going and going. _Too far, too far. I can't get back, I don't know how._ But even that thought was blasted out. He could do nothing but give himself to it, for however long it wanted to go on.

Yet then it stopped, and changed, and he was lying on the scarred boards of a deck, some ship somewhere – a ship he recognized, with a horrible, cold lurch of his stomach. It was the _Pandora,_ in the very cabin where he had woken up with Captain Freeman telling him that their father had traded him and Liam for the boat. And in the same bunk where he had slept the last time, but now his grownup self rather than the curly-haired boy, was Liam himself.

Killian's heart missed a beat. He got awkwardly to his feet, looking around as if half expecting to see their own ghosts, but it was silent. He crossed the floor to his brother, put a hand on his uninjured shoulder, and whispered, "Li?"

No answer. Liam's eyes were closed, face almost translucent, still, sunken. He didn't hear. He wasn't here. _Long way gone._

Killian hesitated, then climbed up on the bunk next to him, the way they had huddled in it for the first night alone, dumbstruck and disbelieving and terrified. They didn't fit now, but he squashed in nonetheless, one boot slipping off the edge as he awkwardly hoisted his hooked arm over his chest. He nestled into Liam, as he rested his chin on Liam's shoulder and let out a long, shaking sigh. "Hey," he whispered. "Stubborn arse. Wake up, would you? Come back to me."

Still no answer.

"You." Killian prodded him more insistently. "You stupid bloody blockhead, I'm talking to you. I'm sorry, all right? I'm sorry I lost my mind. I'm sorry I didn't do better, that I didn't understand. I should damn well hope you're sorry too. Sorry for lying to me. For thinking you had to do it and carry it all by yourself. Sorry that you never trusted me enough. But. . ." He hesitated. "Not sorry for loving me more than anyone ever has, and likely ever will. Not sorry for doing whatever you had to, for paying the price, to free us. I'm sorry for that too. I'm sorry it was always your guilt to struggle with. I'm sorry it was joining me, or leaving me." His voice caught. "And you should be _fucking_ sorry for leaving me, you son of a bitch!"

With that, Killian sat up and looked down at Liam, then punched him smartly in the good shoulder. "I owe you about ten more of those," he said, half in a whisper. "I'll give them to you when you're awake to suffer them properly. I know it was our half-brother that stabbed you, just like I stabbed. . . I stabbed our father. We don't know how to do anything right. None of us do. We're too bloody fucked up and scared and stubborn and raw. We'll all end up killing each other at this rate. Slipping away into the dark. But you and I, we were always the best of whatever little use the Jones family ever was to anyone. Come on, you bastard. Wake up, or I _will_ kill you."

The silence grew greater. He was aware of shadows dancing around them and behind them and above them and through them, until they were not as solid as they had been. He fumbled out and got hold of Liam's hand, holding onto it; wherever they were going now, it wouldn't be alone. Not like this, not one more time. No matter what.

 _I am not afraid,_ he had said to Tiana, and for the most part, it was true. Nothing that could happen to him personally had the power to faze him anymore. But what could happen to others, what he could have to watch, what he might not be able to stop – that terrified him. He could not turn away, not one more time. Not walk out the door, and shut it, and let that be that.

The cabin was fracturing around them, crumbling inward, breaking apart. Then, once again, they were falling. He was aware of Liam being with him this time, somewhere close in the maelstrom, and he hung even harder onto his hand. Kept on dragging him, hauling him through whatever invisible resistance they encountered, which was pitching and tossing beneath them like the _Imperator_ laboring through heavy seas in a storm. Killian thought he caught a far-off glimpse of them, newly commissioned in their uniforms not yet resting easy on their shoulders, absolutely pissed on with rain, but laughing. Arms around each other, not caring if the tempest raged fit to wreck them, because they were together, and they were free.

He was vaguely aware of light somewhere, wondered if the clouds had parted, if the sun had shone through. If the storm was breaking, if the dawn had come. But it slowly acquired the shape and quality of fire, of torches, and then it was burning under his eyes, and then he was groggily aware of being awake again, of lying on the ground when he was sure he had been standing, feeling as if he had fallen out of the highest shrouds by the topgallant and smashed to jelly on the deck. Faces were looking down at him, indistinct dark blurs, until they finally, belatedly swam back into focus. Merlin, Lancelot, Poseidon, Ursula, Tiana, and the rest of the Maroons, as well as Regina. All of them on edge, waiting to see what had happened, when he had no idea himself. Was it – was any of it – had it just been some sort of demented dream and nothing to do with –

For another moment, silence. Even the rush of the wind and the drip of distant water seemed to be stilled. Killian stared down at Liam, waiting, _waiting._ At last, after so long, praying.

Then, at last, something shifted, as if the Angel of Death had finally passed over, as if the lots had been cast. As if the wind had changed, freshening the sails, and one more time, they were setting out to sea together. As if all the years were dust, and here, at last, they began again.

Liam's eyes moved beneath closed lids. A hint of color touched his dead-white cheeks. Then his chest heaved, he sucked in a ragged breath, and a slit of blue showed between his lashes. He looked up, clearly with absolutely no idea where he was, what had gone on, or any of it – anything except for Killian, looking anxiously down at him. He stared a moment more. Then, slowly, tentatively, almost shyly, he smiled. Reached up a hand, and touched his brother's face.

"Killian," he said. "It's you."

* * *

They could not turn and run. That, of course, would draw the attention of the mob right after Jennings had reeled off his list of the eight people whose deaths would buy entrance into what was suddenly the most sought-after employment in the Caribbean, and someone would stop them, recognize them, and half of his work would be done on the spot. Thus they had to wait as he finished his speech, with the added delightful touch that all of the named individuals had to die or none of the bounties would be paid out. It was not specified exactly how much this would be, but it was left to everyone's imagination that it would be more money than they had ever seen or were likely to see again, and since anyone with weak hearts need not apply, this was merely the best way of threshing the wheat from the chaff.

Thus when Emma, Flint, Miranda, and Billy dispersed with the rest of the crowd, they could hear plots for their brutal murder being eagerly discussed to all sides, usually followed by just what the murderer intended to do with all that money (whores, wine, and more whores tended to top the list, which was just depressing). They kept to a staid walk, hoods still up, but that likewise would draw suspicion; they had to get off the street. Back to the boarding house, to warn Sam and his men that this had just changed the game entirely? They had to do that, if nothing else. It was hardly possible for them to be in a weaker position. The _Walrus_ and the _Whydah_ were both outside the harbor and out of easy reach, Sam was injured, Emma was pregnant, Charlie and Henry were back at Miranda's house with only Will and Anne for protection, and someone might well go looking for Flint and Miranda there, find Will, and not bother to spare anyone in their way. Killian was missing, who even knew about Liam, and Regina Mills – wasn't that the woman from Antigua who wanted Emma dead, even though she had never laid eyes on her in her life? If nothing else, you could apparently count on Jennings to piss off every single one of them.

"If only I hadn't missed the bastard back in Boston," Flint growled, as they finally reached the boarding house, ducked inside, and shut the door quickly, barring it behind them. "I only got him in the shoulder, though if I'd hit him in the heart, I doubt it would have made a difference. Seeing as I don't think he bloody has one."

" _You_ shot him?" Emma had noticed that Jennings seemed to be favoring his left arm, that his shoulder was bandaged beneath his shirt, but as a weak spot, this was vanishingly little to go on. "Rescuing Miranda?"

"Aye. And as I said, missed." Flint's mouth was grim. "Either way, we need to do something. I'm not cowering here like a rabbit chased down a hole, not when this – this is _my_ island! What about Eleanor Guthrie? Is she just going to let Jennings and his rabid dogs butcher us? Doesn't Vane still want to fuck her badly enough to put a stop to it, even if he can't stand me?"

"I'm sure he does. The question is if he wants to fuck her, or fuck her over." It had crossed Emma's mind that they could try to recruit Eleanor for help, but there was no way to predict which way Eleanor and Vane's infamously hot-and-cold affair was currently running. Sometimes Vane could be almost gentle, reasonable, willing to do what she said and to act supportively in her interests. Other times they were barely short of physically clawing each other's eyes out, backstabbing and undermining each other and hurting each other as much as they possibly could. If Vane was in a mood where he was perfectly fine with destroying her tenuous control over the island, especially if it came with the added benefit of removing Flint, appealing to his concern for Eleanor would be no good at all, and in fact actively counterproductive. "We could tell her, of course – though I imagine she'll hear it shortly anyway – but Jennings could be counting on that. Have men choose sides and start fighting in the streets. Then by restoring the peace on his terms, he becomes kingmaker. Or king."

"Jesus bleeding Christ." Flint rubbed a hand across his beard. "If anyone rules Nassau, it's going to be me, and if you hadn't coerced me into giving half of my money away to Sam – "

"Maybe you'll have to ally with us again, if you want it." Emma stared at him coldly. "I'm captain of the _Whydah_ as long as he's injured. You can't go against all of Nassau on your own, or even with just the _Walrus._ You need help."

Flint looked as if she had asked him to drive a marlinspike through his eyeball, but he couldn't shoot this down out of hand. "Fine. If we can get back to our ships, we could solve this quick enough. Coordinate an assault on the harbor, burn the _Bathsheba_ and the _Ranger,_ cut the head off the snake and serve them a heaping dose of their own damnable medicine. Where's Hook when you actually fucking need him? Isn't this his specialty?"

"I don't know," Emma said again. Her stomach clenched. For better or worse, she didn't think he had just lost his nerve and run away in the night, as that wasn't who he was, and he had given his word to her that they would try. "Besides, if we did that, we'd start the war ourselves."

"What, you think we can barter our way out of this one?" Flint looked almost weary. "Ask them nicely to _please_ not kill us? Jennings started the war already by putting that price on our heads in front of the entire island. Men will do anything for this kind of money, Emma. _Anything."_

His unexpected use of her first name startled her, even as she considered the fact that he wasn't wrong, that this was the darkest side of their kind, that Jennings was the most notorious but by far not the only one willing to cast aside all moral quandaries or restraining factors as long as it meant a fat payday at the end. Some pirates, like Sam, were truly principled and generous and fair-minded, stole only from the crooked and the wealthy and the brutal who deserved it, but as they knew all too well, Sam was not like anyone else on Nassau. The pirates' motives might be understandable insofar as they had almost always escaped from violent or abject or unfair situations, and now wanted revenge on their tormentors, but it certainly did not make them into heroes or altruists along the way. Just drove them into this place where the low, low price of just eight lives was absolutely nothing to call them off a windfall of riches.

Emma was quiet, unsure how to respond. Miranda and Billy had gone upstairs to warn Sam and his men, and it was just her and Flint, staring each other down in the dimness of the hall. Finally she said, "They'd be fools to think that Jennings would actually pay them, or at least as much as he promised. He wants that money for himself, and he would have just conveniently identified who would be willing to kill him too if the price was right. He'd be more likely to reward them with a knife in the gut, rather than gold in the hand."

"Aye. Of course. Perhaps five men will in fact realize that. That leaves only what, a thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-five who still want us dead?"

Emma winced. "We need to find a way to sneak out of here, and we have to get Charlie, Henry, Will, and Anne out of Miranda's house. They're completely exposed there, and. . ." She couldn't believe this, that the instant she was reunited with her boys, they were all plunged into unfathomable danger. "Is there any chance Anne could intercede? Rackham isn't a man for cold-blooded slaughter, and Anne, if nothing else, isn't going to let me and Miranda be killed. If we could send her to him, try to persuade him to talk sense into Vane – "

"Talking sense into Vane is a contradiction in terms." Flint folded his arms. "As if he'd listen to Rackham's quacking anyway, when he finally sees a chance to get everything he wants. But aye, waste your time on that. If you need me, I'll be loading my guns."

"Jennings needs to die, I'm not disputing that!" Emma faced him head-on. "But there has to be a way to do it without burning down the rest of Nassau! You're the one always banging on about its future, about building it into something that lasts. How the hell are you going to do that if you just want to take it into a full-out war right now? Or is that yet another of your lies?"

Flint's green eyes blazed back at her, until she wondered if she had finally pushed too far, beyond the boundaries of whatever their uncertain, delicate relationship would protect her from. Then again, he wasn't used to anyone slapping him with the truth directly except Miranda, and as he had if nothing else acknowledged Emma's importance to her, he could not fail to see a glimmer of resemblance now. He opened his mouth, closed it, clenched a fist, looked down, and then up again. "Very well, Captain Swan," he said, with dangerous softness. "What would your solution to this crisis be? Peace talks over tea and crumpets?"

Emma opened her own mouth, admittedly not sure what she was going to say, but at that moment, Miranda and Billy reappeared, looking equally grim. The latter jerked his head at Emma and Flint. "Bellamy wants to talk strategy. Come on."

" _More_ talking?" Flint raised his eyes to the heavens. "So we can make sure our jaw muscles are well-exercised when they break down the door and pour in here, is that it?"

"We're coming," Emma said, ignoring Flint. "Billy, your name isn't on the list. Is there any way you can get out to Miranda's house, and retrieve Charlie, Henry, Anne, and Will? Bring Anne back here, if you possibly can, but get the boys to the _Whydah._ Sam's men can tell you where we anchored it _._ Tell them to await further orders."

Billy looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. Without further argument, he pulled back up his hood, tightened his belt, and strode down the hall, preparing to brave the streets. One of Sam's men had evidently lent him a dagger, as he didn't have any weapons otherwise, and Emma prayed that would be enough to deal with any trouble he encountered. Every part of her wanted to just run to Charlie and Henry herself, get them on the nearest ship going anywhere near Virginia no matter the cost, but she couldn't, not yet. As they had found out the hard way, she was Captain Swan, and she had some crucial decisions to make. Not just to save their lives, but everyone's. She trusted Billy, at least. He'd do everything he could.

With Miranda in tow, she and Flint went up the stairs to Sam's room, whereupon they found him already out of bed and struggling to dress himself, clearly refusing to lie idle while the currents of conspiracy brewed and swirled. He wasn't doing a very good job of it, as his shoulder was still most unsightly, and Emma hurried to assist, pulling the shirt over his head. "Sam, be careful. If you split it open again, that's not going to help us at all."

"Wonderful," Flint said. "These are my allies, a pregnant woman and a man who can't use his right arm. I feel so much safer already."

"I'm not feeling bloody safe with Captain Backstabber standing right in front of me," Sam shot back. "Preferable, though, to him standing at the rear?"

"Here I thought you were known to like that sort of thing." Flint's eyes glittered. "Or is it – "

"And what?" Sam looked straight at him. "You don't?"

While Emma was enjoying the spectacle of the terrifying Captain James Flint reduced to utter speechlessness (though she was more than a little worried that Flint would kill Sam himself and save Jennings' thugs the hassle), Miranda looked exasperated. "Shall you two go stand in the corner and continue what I hesitate to term a battle of wits, and let the grown women make the plans? Or do you have something worthwhile to contribute, _if_ you'd be so kind?"

Flint's attention remained balefully on Bellamy, but with just enough reluctance to look away that Emma was suddenly quite sure it wasn't only the strong desire to punch his teeth down his throat. Sam had always been completely open about preferring both women and men, not caring in the least if anyone wanted to mock or shame him for it, and lived his life exactly as pleased him, sacrificing no respect or prestige or skill or success as a result. Emma didn't know all the details, but she did know that Flint had loved Thomas Hamilton, and while these days he was faithful to Miranda, there must still be that part of him that remained empty, withdrawn, without. Emma was not about to further jeopardize her already considerably at-risk skin by suggesting it, but she rather thought that Flint should – if his pride would ever countenance it, which was doubtful – follow up on this later, in a less life-and-death situation. Take Miranda with him. Sam was the rare man who could give them both the intimacy they needed, and moreover, the care. Fill in, at least for a bit, that missing third part of them.

The expression on Miranda's face, as Emma glanced at her, made her think that she had also picked up on this, taken troubled and tender note of Flint's moment of temptation. Then she clapped her hands, startling them back to the present. "Very well. We have no time to waste. What is the plan?"

"I'm not running." Flint tore his gaze off Bellamy, mastered himself, and turned to face them angrily. "I've just spent several bloody months at sea, scampering up and down every arse-crack and backwater, fighting like the devil and otherwise embroiled in too much fucking trouble for anybody's good. I'm not leaving Nassau, and I'm not going down with a whimper. We'll lose whatever little foothold we have left if we scuttle like cockroaches, and that's that. Anyone who has a fucking problem with it can see themselves out."

"So that still means we have to find a way to get to the _Walrus_ and the _Whydah_ without being apprehended," Emma pointed out. "Even if we don't leave, there's no way we'd be safe anywhere on the island – we have to stay on our ships. And if Kil – if Hook – "

"No!" Flint's fist hit the sideboard with a crash. "We are not making any plans that involve crossing our fingers and hoping he somehow turns up in time! He cut and ran on us in Boston, it's just as likely he's done it again! I am not putting our lives in the _hand_ of that – "

"Why are you so sure he won't come back?" Emma challenged. "Because that's what you'd do? Leave us behind without a second glance? But he ran in Boston because he – because he thought I was dead. Now, if nothing else, he knows I'm not. You know that you two are very much alike. What would _you_ do, if Miranda was here? Run? Or come back, no matter what?"

Flint threw a scathing look at her. "You really think you mean that much to him?"

"Aye, she does think so," Sam said. "Because she does mean that much to him. I happen to know it for a bloody fact. So how about you admit that other people apart from you have emotions, have convictions, have faced tragedy and come through it, and answer the fucking question?"

Flint looked like a bear baited to all sides by dogs. He raised a hand, then dropped it. "Fine," he growled at last. "Yes. I'd come back. Nothing would stop me."

Miranda moved silently to take his arm, which seemed to ground him somewhat, and he blew out a long breath. "In the meantime, however," he went on, "we need to strike back on our own accord. We'll go talk to Eleanor, warn her of the coup in progress, and see if she can muster a few ships and captains to join us. Then we'll have to risk it to get back to our own. Come on."

Nobody could argue with the sense of this, and once they had all donned hooded cloaks again, they sent Bellamy's men to get the _Whydah's_ boat and hold it waiting for them, so they could make an instant escape if necessary. Then Flint, Miranda, Emma, and Sam let themselves out the back, and started up the hill to the Guthrie warehouse, trying not to look as conspicuous as they felt. They were only lightly armed, had just Flint's knife and Sam's pistols, as they obviously had not been expecting to walk into the middle of a full-on attempted assassination plot. Besides, Emma wearing a sword would have drawn attention, as she was well known as the only female pirate captain on Nassau, and Sam could not do much dueling with his shoulder in the shape it was. If they were stopped and recognized, it would turn very dicey, very fast.

Miraculously, however, they made it to the Guthrie premises without being set upon, and within another five minutes, were before Eleanor herself. She was a pretty blonde pistol-mouthed bitch, as she was called either admiringly or angrily, hard-bitten in the way that only a girl barely out of her teens, running an island full of dangerous, violent, self-interested men, could be. She liked both Flint and Emma, at least somewhat, because they had worked with her in the past, and because she often felt safer with Emma than other captains; they, obviously, had a kinship. All she could say at the moment, however, was, "Are you serious? Are you _fucking_ serious? Charles is already acting like a fucking lunatic, and now he's arriving here with some new friend who's even worse than he is, thinking he can just _take over Nassau_ and kill everyone that stands in his way? _Are you fucking serious?"_

"Unfortunately, yes." Flint flashed an utterly forbidding smile, as Eleanor whirled on her heel with another curse. "And Henry Jennings is a different kettle of rotten fish entirely, and not one even you can trifle with. So unless you can somehow prevail upon Vane to change his mind before the killing starts, then we need some help, quickly."

"If I see Charles again, I'll kill _him_ myself!" Eleanor's nostrils flared. "He's paying me back for deposing him, I know he is. And if he's bringing this scum son-of-a-bitch Jennings – I think I've heard of him, didn't he used to be Lord Hamilton's attack dog? – then he doesn't intend to let it go soon, either. Jesus, what a fucking disaster."

"Aye, well." Flint's tone was far from sympathetic. "Hell hath no fury, and all that. So what are you going to do about it?"

Eleanor hesitated. "I'll try to get word to some of the captains with stronger ships who might be able to form an armada. Unfortunately, of course, all of them are currently out at fucking sea, and God knows when they'll be back. You did say you stole _some_ treasure, didn't you? From the Spanish wrecks?"

"Aye. Some. Though I was ramrodded into giving half of it up." Flint cocked his head at the other man present. "I don't suppose you'll have met Black Sam Bellamy just yet?"

Despite the urgency of the situation, Eleanor could not stop herself from giving Bellamy a long, interested look, as most flesh-and-blood women did upon first introduction. "You're one of Hornigold's old men, aren't you? Is there any chance you can convince him to get off his ass up at the fort and actually step up to defend us?"

"Doubtful," Sam remarked. "Seeing as the inability to get off his ass and step up was the reason I became captain in the first place. You know how he feels about not attacking Dear Old England. If he finds out Jennings is, or was, in the hire of not one but _two_ English governors, he might just take it into his head to ally with him."

"Cowardly fucking _traitor."_ Eleanor's fists clenched. "He'll shit all over us one day soon, mark my words. He should go back there, if he loves it so much. Not remain squatting on Nassau, long past any bravery or relevance, causing trouble for the rest of us."

"I can't disagree," Sam said, and Emma was surprised to hear the steel in his tone. He was so gallant and generous and cheerful and unfailingly kind – at least as he had always been to her – that it was easy to think that he didn't really have it in him to hate anyone, or those who did not obviously deserve to be hated. But nobody, not even Sam, became a pirate captain because they were willing to forgive anything and anyone, because they weren't willing to do what it took, because they had warm feelings toward the men and the systems and the injustice that had so bitterly wronged them. Bellamy did not live in his hatred, did not let it overcome or define him, did not give it undue rein or permit it to justify outrageous actions – in a way, he was the strongest of them all, in his ability to deal with it. But that did not mean, and nobody should make the mistake of thinking, that it was not there. He had left his family's poor farm in Devon, managed by a cruel and corrupt landlord, for good reason. He had left the Navy for good reason, even if he remained on friendly terms with David Nolan. He had overthrown Hornigold and risen to command for equally good ones. And no matter what, he had not forgotten.

"So, then," Flint said. "It seems we're stuck crossing our fingers and waiting for help to arrive in time, which I still hate as a strategy. You can at least, I am sure, make it known that any man who throws in with Vane and Jennings will no longer have his takings fenced through the Guthrie enterprises, and good bloody luck to him finding legitimate buyers on his own?"

Eleanor looked at him bleakly. "Aye, but what does it matter? If Charles and this new madman of his really do have that much money to throw around, I could refuse to do anything with the island's cargoes from now until Judgment Day, and they'd laugh at me. We can't outspend them. And as long as they have the masses in thrall, we can't outfight them either. We're going to have to outsmart them, if anything, and that's a very slender wager to lay money on."

"I know." Flint's face remained grim. "Don't think I don't. I'm bloody well aware of how bad it is. And I can't say I'd rather be in our position than theirs, because I wouldn't. But I have _not_ come this far just to lose now. We'll work something out. That I canpromise."

"You'd better." Eleanor's lip trembled briefly, before she firmed it at once, clearly angry with herself. "You'd also better get to your ships. That way, at least you can blast anyone coming at you out of the water."

"At least someone understands," Flint said under his breath, with an extremely pointed look at his companions. But he nodded, turned on his heel, and took Miranda's arm, as Sam stepped up to do the same for Emma. They once more took the back way out of the warehouse, descended the street, and stopped to consider their best choice of route; the _Walrus_ and the _Whydah_ were anchored in different directions outside the city, and they would have to split up. And by the looks of things, Vane and Jennings were already fortifying their advantage in the harbor, with the _Ranger_ and the _Bathsheba_ well positioned to intercept anyone trying to get in or out. A number of smaller craft had also joined up in the impromptu blockade, making the threat sharply obvious. Anyone not inclined to take the carrot, the sweet promise of incalculable riches for just a few troublesome sorts killed off, would be brained beyond belief with the stick instead. _Eleanor's right. God, what a fucking mess. Where is Killian, where? Is he even going to be able to get back in, or will he have to blast his way through all of them too? Can he?_

"Bloody _hell,_ " Flint said, seeing her hesitate. "Can we get _going,_ before – "

And just then, two men rounded the corner, looked up, and saw them. Their faces registered a fascinating mix of emotions: confusion, disbelief, and then utter, greedy, untrammeled delight. "Look at that!" one of them said. "That's – what, three shares at once? Four? Christ, we're going to be the richest motherfuckers on the face of the earth!"

Flint flung his arms out, shielding the others. "Back the fuck off and leave. Now."

"The fuck we will." Both of them drew their heavy cutlasses, advancing with menacing purpose. "We want to be filthy rich, and everyone knows what a cheating sumbitch you are, so it ain't like Nassau's gonna miss you. Come on, who wants it?"

Flint looked at them for a long, terribly tenuous moment, and then – terrifyingly – actually smiled. "You know," he said. "You're total idiots to think that Jennings is going to pay you. He'll kill you himself, for being so stupid as to point out to him that you are exactly the kind of mindless gutter scum that can be bought for any price. But as it happens, I'm a bit short on allies right now. I _also_ have a considerable reserve of Spanish treasure at my disposal. Don't you think there is a wise choice to be made here?"

"Shut up, you!" One of them jabbed with his cutlass, as Flint kept his arms outstretched, making sure the other three stayed behind him. "Say anything to save your own fool skin!"

The second man, however, looked less sure. "I dunno," he said, frowning. "True it would be easy for that Jennings to bribe us all with empty promises, get us to do his dirty work. Man like him, you couldn't ever feel comfortable closing your eyes at night."

"What the fuck? We're going to be bloody rich! The fuck cares about sleep? Get over 'ere and help me kill 'em, or don't, and I'll take it for myself!"

The second man looked belligerently at his murderously-minded cohort, then back at Flint. "How much treasure do you have?"

"Plenty." Flint smiled enticingly. "And far fewer men to share it with."

The man scratched his chin. The tip of his cutlass wavered. "You know," he said after a moment, "it's true. I'm an idiot to think that Jennings would ever pay me."

"Aye," Flint said. "That you are. As much as you are to think that I ever would." And with that, fast as a snake, he seized the man's arm, jerked him forward, kicked the sword out of his hand, and ran him through the belly with his knife, which he had stealthily drawn while distracting them. He ripped it up to the breastbone, twisted, and stabbed a second time, harder.

The first man yelled in fury, lunging past Flint, and Emma threw her hands up uselessly, having nothing and no way to stop him from killing all three of them on the spot. Then there was a bang at deafeningly close range, she smelled gunpowder, and the man skidded to a halt, looking confused. He touched the spreading crimson flower in his chest, said, "Well, damn it," and keeled over flat on his face, dead as a doornail.

Stunned, Emma whirled around to see Sam pointing one of his pistols with his left hand, utterly cold and calm-looking. He blew it off to cool it, slung it back on his sash, and said to Flint, "No use without my right arm, am I? By the way, that's how you don't miss shooting someone in the heart. Take note."

Flint looked at him for a long moment, until the air almost crackled and Emma had the distinct impression that he was very close to grabbing Sam then and there and forcing him into a rough, dominant kiss – at which he might be grandly overestimating the likelihood of success, as Sam would assuredly give as good as he got and for just a few godforsaken moments, Flint might have to give up being in control of everything, everywhere. Once more, it was Miranda who had to break the spell. "Are we going? Someone must have heard that."

"Aye." Flint bent down, wiped the blood off his knife on the nearest corpse's shirt, and shoved it back into the sheath. "But it's also idiocy to split up, if we can barely handle two men. If we get to the _Whydah,_ since Bellamy's men have the boat waiting, Miranda and I can go onto the _Walrus_ from there, rather than trying to do it separately. Closer, too."

This was true, and since Emma had already told Billy to get Charlie and Henry to the _Whydah,_ it made the most sense as a rendezvous point. They hurried down the alley, trying to keep to the shadows as much as they could, zigzagging in and out, until they finally reached the waterfront, in a hidden, less-trafficked corner. They clambered into the boat with Bellamy's men, threw the oars into the locks, and began to pull hard, much too close to the other ships for comfort, until they made it into the tide channel that would take them to the _Whydah's_ hidden anchorage. Emma could feel her heart jangling like a broken harpsichord, not sure the shock had entirely set in. Of course she had known that they were now wanted fugitives with massive prices on their heads, but she still hadn't expected someone to try to kill them quite so, well, _soon._

It was close to half an hour until they finally veered around the headland and beheld the _Whydah_ in her protected position, at least not looking as if she had been overrun with blood-maddened, money-grubbing amateur bounty hunters. They rowed in, climbed aboard, and permitted themselves to breathe out for the first time since the mess began, and Emma laid immediate hold of Paulsgrave Williams. "Have there been others here? A tall blonde man, with two boys? Possibly another man and a woman as well? They would have said they came from me."

"No." Williams looked concerned. "You're the first. Is the captain all right?"

"He's – well, he's as fine as any of us are right now, which isn't particularly." With that, Emma explained the whole sorry story of what had transpired back in the city, and the danger they were all demonstrably and drastically in. "We need to get to the _Walrus –_ Billy probably decided to take Charlie and Henry there, it's not far from Miranda's house and much easier to reach. And when we have two ships, we'll have more ability to defend ourselves."

"Aye," Flint said, overhearing her. "But we're east here, and the _Walrus_ is west. If we sailed to it directly, we'd have to go straight past the harbor, and with those idiots spoiling for a fight, we'd have the ripe lot of them up our bloody arses. I don't care how many guns you have strapped to this tub of swill, we couldn't outshoot them all."

" _Tub of swill?"_ Sam looked absolutely outraged that Flint would dare to impugn his beauty with him standing right there. "She carries thirty-six, more than just about anything _else_ I see going, and if you don't like her, you don't have to stay on her. You're welcome to bloody swim. And besides, since when did you back down from a fight?"

Flint looked amused at this defensiveness, though he couldn't have been surprised; captains tended to be touchy where questions of their ships' honor were concerned. "Since I'm well aware that one ship against them all are shit odds, especially after our earlier run-in. Once we have the _Walrus,_ I'll be happy to blow holy terror out of them alongside you, believe me."

"Ah?" Bellamy cocked a dark eyebrow. "And you suggest what, then?"

"Take the long way. Sail around the island, come up on the other side, we can make it without being seen. By the time we get to the _Walrus,_ and then back into Nassau, it'll be the middle of the night, and they won't suspect a thing. Take them off guard and storm the harbor." Flint smiled thinly. "I believe the saying is, Bob's your uncle."

Emma had to admit that this, again, made sense; Flint was rarely wrong when it came to tactics. But this went against every bone in her body that screamed at her to get to Charlie and Henry right now, that she had to see if they were safe – Nassau was a fairly small island, but it lay almost entirely lengthwise. Circling it would take a good four or five hours at least, and that was if the wind cooperated. And what if Billy got here and found them gone, thus having to risk a dangerous second expedition back to the _Walrus?_ His name might not be on the list, but Will's was, and he was with them, if he couldn't draw them off in time –

Emma shook her head, hard. There were no safe choices, she couldn't waste time dithering, and she had to commit to a course of action. Billy could have gotten to the _Walrus_ within an hour from Miranda's house, rather than the longer, dangerous crossing through Nassau it would take to get to the _Whydah,_ and it was logical to assume that he, a sensible man, had realized this and acted accordingly. Glancing at Sam, she could see that he was of the same mind, and she would just have to trust, somehow and impossibly, that she was not about to lose every single man or boy she cared for – whether him, Killian, Charlie, or Henry – in one fell swoop. "Flint's right," she said tightly. "We go around."

The crew hopped to make sail, the heavy half-ton anchor was winched up, and they pointed the _Whydah's_ bow into the teeth of an adverse, and steadily strengthening, wind. It was clearly going to take well into the night, and a lot of skilled sailing, and Emma wondered if having her, Bellamy, _and_ Flint aboard counted as too many cooks in the kitchen. But Sam made it clear that for now, she was still the captain, and everyone was expected to follow her orders. Flint looked deeply skeptical of this arrangement, but (for once) kept his mouth shut.

They moved out from shore in a bid to catch a better breeze, far enough that it turned into a hazy blue line off to starboard. They were not making the time Emma wanted, but there was absolutely bugger-all she could do about it; none of them, not even Flint (to his great chagrin) could control the weather. In fact, it seemed clear that they would to have to resign themselves to a long and unsettled night, and she paced the deck until she thought it might wear grooves beneath her feet. Then she jumped when a hand touched her arm. "Come on," Sam said softly. "You'll drive yourself mad. Your lads are fine, I'm sure. There's no value in killing them."

"Aye, but that might not make a difference, if they get caught in the middle of something. And you're still hurt." Emma eyed his wounded shoulder; she could see spots of fresh blood on his shirt, and it did nothing for her already raw nerves. "And I. . . I don't know where Killian is. I'm sure he had a good reason for leaving, but. . ."

"But it doesn't make it any easier to deal with," Sam completed. "Especially with every-bloody-thing else that's going on. Come on, there's something to eat in my cabin."

Emma followed him in to find Flint and Miranda already seated at the table, the lantern rocking on the beam overhead as the seas continued to roughen. She didn't _think_ they were in for a full-out gale, but the mercury had been capricious enough over the last few days, and she had noticed enough swings in wind and weather, to keep her smartly on her guard. She didn't have much of an appetite anyway, only nibbling on a biscuit, aware of Flint and Sam exchanging brief, oblique glances and then (in Flint's case, at least) immediately acting as if he hadn't. Miranda noticed as well, of course, and regarded them for a long, considering moment. Then she looked at Sam, and something unspoken seemed to pass between them, some kind of action or decision. She set her glass of wine down, got up, and went over to him, as he pushed back his chair and stood up. Then as Flint looked back and forth in utter bafflement, Sam reached out, took Miranda by the waist as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed her.

Flint almost stopped breathing at the sight of his wife and Bellamy in each other's embrace, as Miranda's hands fisted in Sam's tousled black hair and pulled his head lower, as he pressed warm, musing kisses to the tops of her breasts and she arched into him, and Flint shifted position in his chair, almost unable to watch. Not because he thought it shouldn't be happening, but because it clearly made him want to get up and join them more than anything else on earth, and that terrified him. Because there must be a constant voice harrowing him in the back of his head, telling him that it was his fault Thomas Hamilton had died. That if he had not been so weak, that if he had not been so foolish, that if he had not been so perverse and contrary and mad as to love him, then Thomas would still be alive, and they would have escaped the disaster and the ruination of their lives and their futures and everything they had ever known or believed in. That it was his weakness, his sin. His. His. His. That there was nothing he could do, no distance far enough to run, no treasure great enough to steal, no success that would be sufficient to atone himself before it, its utter, unforgiving gaze, the eye of judgment and damnation, forever fixed on him, forever finding him wanting. It was easy to forget, with how fearless and heartless and sardonic and invincible he had learned how to be, how very strong his demons were, and how very much they screamed.

After an endless moment, Miranda and Sam broke apart, and he pulled her into his side, turning toward Flint and letting his hips fall open in a clear gesture of invitation, raising a hand to flick open a button of his shirt (which, it should be noted, was not particularly done up in the first place). His eyes caught Emma's, asking if this was all right with her, and she nodded. He had, after all, given up his cabin and his bed to her without a single complaint for two months, and if he wanted to reclaim them for the evening, that was absolutely his right and prerogative. Not that it was likely to be a full _ménage a trois,_ as Sam was of course still badly wounded and not up for anything too vigorous, but it might at least be an exploration, an offering, a promise of more to come. Flint kept staring, then at last, like a man in a dream, got up, crossed the boards, and hesitantly, barely, not even able to look either of them in the eye, took Sam's offered hand.

Emma got to her feet, sensing that the three of them would prefer to have some privacy from here on out, and yet still marveling at Sam's ability to know what people needed, to look past their defenses and their walls and their personas, everything they put up and practiced to keep themselves sane, everything they hid behind and feared to come out from. He had done it for her, so tenderly and surely and steadily, that there was no way she would want to stop him from doing it for Flint and Miranda. Not when, as she had thought, he was the only one who could.

She crossed the cabin to the door, but couldn't stop herself from looking back, as Sam brought Flint's hand to his lips and kissed it, keeping hold of Miranda with the other arm. The lantern was guttering, the candle stump almost burned out, painting them in rich low shadows, a scene transfixing in its bittersweetness. Sam stepped closer, lifting his hand, running a thumb along the weathered line of Flint's cheek, as Flint remained motionless, still barely seeming to breathe or blink. Then just as gently, slowly, he tipped his head down, and touched his mouth to Flint's.

That was where Emma made her exit, stepping through the door and setting it quietly closed behind her – not in time, however, to avoid hearing the sound that Flint made, and the sheer, raw, shattered _need_ of it gave her chills. She leaned against the wall outside, feeling soft and tender and sad and more than a little breathless herself, wanting Killian so intensely it was like a clench low and wet between her legs, a flutter in her swelling belly, a gasp in her chest not quite let go, a hot sheen on the fragile armor of her skin. She closed her eyes, trying to lock her weak knees, to regain control. They were still, after all, facing possible death ten ways before sunrise, as well as a mortally dangerous mission to make it to the _Walrus,_ find Charlie and Henry,and launch a counterattack on Vane and Jennings' barricade of Nassau harbor, and this was no time for distractions. Not that it mattered. Not that he was even here. _He will be, though. He has to be._

After a moment, she pulled herself together, running an unsteady hand through her loose, sweaty hair. She straightened up and strode off to consult with Williams, to go over the plan one more time, as the wind sang through the lines, the clouds shifted over the distant stars, and the _Whydah_ rode on into the night. Into the very heart of darkness, as the world seemed to fall like a great curtain on everything that had come before, and everything that would be remained unmanifest, unformed, the breath of God moving on the face of the deep in the instant before Creation. That it would be so a moment more, in time without time, until – all at once – it changed.

And so, in some way, she knew.


	26. XXVI

**-XXVI-**

The sun was coming up in a halo of bloody clouds, away through the thicket of shadowed black trees, and the air was heavy with the lingering weight of the overnight rainstorm, cool and still as a slab of marble, as Killian Jones perched atop the damp rocks and watched it rise. From this eagle's eyrie, he could just see the _Jewel_ and the _Jolie_ anchored in the bay below, looking like tiny toy ships that he could pick up and play with. _Not that I ever had one of those._ But it was almost completely quiet, even the morning ruckus of birds seeming oddly muted, and beyond the steep shoulders of the island, the sea spread out as far as he could see, a tranquil dark mirror. Staring at it always calmed him, even after everything. He had never lived away from it, had never considered hating it, as much as he resented why he was there. _As well hate the sky, or the moon, or the stars._ They were his friends, his companions, when once upon a time he sat on the deck and looked up and dreamed. Even among the fear, the brutality, the drudgery, the darkness, there were those nights. It was hard, after all, not to hope. Even a bit.

 _And do I try it again, now?_ The possibility was certainly there. There were reasons for it, as there were reasons he shouldn't. He had ostensibly gone up here to think, to weigh potential courses of action, to make a pretense of being balanced and reasonable and logical, when he was already bloody well aware that it wasn't his head which would drive the eventual outcome. There was just a different feeling in his chest right now, when he breathed. Less strangled and shattered and sore, less as if a giant fist had hold and was twisting, twisting, twisting. It had taken him until now, sitting and watching the sunrise, to realize that for once, just for a little while, it had stopped hurting. Not as if it was healed, or as if it wasn't still in danger of cracking again, but just for now, in this moment, it wasn't crushing him. If nothing else, he'd take that.

After another several minutes, when the sun had climbed over the edge of the eastern horizon and the gauzy golden glow began to illuminate the underside of the canopy, Killian got up, brushed himself off, and strode down the narrow path to the camp. The Maroons' center of ceremony and law and celebration was in the cave, but they lived outside, in huts and treehouses strung among the thick jungle, and as Killian entered, the place busy with morning industry, it looked like any other village. Children ran and played and were shouted at by their parents carrying woven baskets or clay vessels or wood for the fires, dogs yapped and scuffled, a young warrior hopefully tried to show off his spear to a young lady who could not have looked less interested, and while a few glanced sidelong at Killian, nobody paid him any special attention. Evidently he had convinced Poseidon for the time being that he was not a threat, or at least he hoped that was why. He made his way toward the largest fire, accepted the cassava bread, yam, and coconut with milk that someone handed him, sat down on a log, and started to eat.

He was still hungry when he finished, but didn't want to ask for seconds, both from not wanting to be an intrusive guest when the Maroons had to feed their own people and from his old habit of knowing that he wouldn't get it anyway. Then a shadow fell over him, and Lancelot sat on the other end of the log, offering him a chunk of warm cornbread drizzled in honey. "You look rather as if you might appreciate this, if I'm not mistaken?"

Killian stared. Such gestures were still so rare in his life, especially from anyone other than his brother, that it took him a moment to respond. "Aye – th-thank you."

He scarfed it down much more quickly than was polite, licking the delicious sweetness off his fingers; it was still a bother to eat with only one hand, but not much more than it was for everything else. When he was done, he said, "How – how's Liam?"

"Better this morning. The wound's starting to close, Ursula has been tending to him, but I don't think he's strong enough to travel. With that and the serious wound to his shoulder, the poor man could use a reprieve." Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Difficult few months, has it been?"

"You have no idea." Killian rinsed his hand in the gourd bowl, rubbing it dry. "Though I wouldn't think you've had a particularly outstanding time of it either, with whatever adventures it took to make it here. Can't bloody blame you for not staying on Jamaica. Nothing good ever happens when I go there either."

"It did seem. . . too close for comfort." Lancelot took a sip from his own coconut. "I'm happy enough, but I can't say I've entirely resigned myself to settling down and staying for the rest of my days. I still have a hunger to go back, to do something that matters, to – well, foolish as it may sound, to live up to my name. Poseidon's instinct is to hide us, to keep us safe and out of sight, and I have no quarrel with that. I know all too well what they do to us in the world. But for my view, there are more than a few scores left unsettled."

"Believe me," Killian said quietly. "I understand the feeling."

They sat there another few moments, until an idea occurred to him. He turned to the Maroon and said, "How would you like to come with me? You and whichever other men that would prefer to fight. My crew is fragmented and scattered, and we could use – especially with my own bloody shortage – a few good hands. We'd be happy to take you on."

Lancelot blinked, clearly surprised. "That is generous, to be sure. And certainly tempting. Why, though? Our debt is paid – you saved my life, I saved your brother's, or rather my people did. We do not need to have anything further to do with each other."

"No," Killian said. "We don't, by obligation. But we could choose to. I have a ship. You have men. We share enemies, and we both hunger for justice against them. I've. . ." He hesitated, seeing Edgar Johnson's face swimming before him, drowned in rum, and ran his thumb over the heavy silver ring, swallowing hard. "I'll not say I'm a perfect captain, or that I even bloody know what I'm doing, half the time. I'd not fault you at all if you'd rather not take up with me. But Poseidon said I reminded him of Bellamy, and perhaps it's time that I actually damn well did something to earn that comparison. He takes former slaves to serve on his crew, makes a point of attacking slavers and liberating their cargos, and as far as I know, he wasn't one himself. If that's the case, what's my bloody excuse?"

"That is one way to put it, I suppose." Lancelot looked thoughtful. "I know of Black Sam only by reputation, but as Poseidon said, some of the men he freed have families here. Is it him you wish to be like, or one of the others?"

Killian opened his mouth, even as he was struck by the memory of his brief meeting with Charles Vane before Nassau, when he looked into his face and recognized him as a fellow former slave. Vane had taken up a policy of doing anything he had to, to anyone, to avoid any risk of that abject servitude again, that loss of control, and until now, Killian had been following exactly in his footsteps. His similarity to Flint was already well established, in the way they had rather literally burned the world down on the event of their spectacular exit from the Navy. He could sit here and talk about how he aspired to be Bellamy all he liked, when the truth was far closer to Vane and Flint: that his anger and his hatred and his desire for _revenge,_ suffering, destruction, had driven him over any limit he thought could check him before. One hollow gesture of taking Maroons aboard would not begin to atone for that, and yet. Perhaps that was the only way to get to wherever he might, slowly, want to go. A tiny step at a time, one foot in front of the other – he at least, after all, still did have two of those. Standing up, and walking.

"As I said." He looked at the ground, fiddling with the hook. "I. . . thought I'd offer."

"I can't deny I'd like to." Lancelot looked at him composedly. "I'll make some enquiries. Now, if you'd like to see your brother, he's by the gnarled palm, second hut to the right."

"Thank you." Killian got up and followed the path through the heavy underbrush, cursing under his breath as it snagged his coat; impressive though it might be, and nicely fitted for his new occupation, a long black leather duster was not the most practical attire for slogging through the jungle. But he made it without too many sartorial mishaps, reached the huts, and paused, unable to banish a sudden fear that Liam wouldn't want to see him. That once he had woken up and returned to his wits and had a night to sleep on it, some treatment and care, he would realize that he had in fact made the right decision by leaving, and did not want to be pulled back into this entire ungodly mess now. As Lancelot said, a break was the least he needed.

Killian shirked a moment longer, then shook his head, furious with himself, and pushed aside the woven drape, ducking into the cool, dim interior. Liam was lying facedown on a low bed, as Ursula spread some sort of poultice over the wound in his back. It was the first time Killian had seen it, and it turned his stomach. For a moment, he found himself vowing to kill their delinquent half-brother the instant he laid hand on him, before remembering that this kind of thing was exactly what had gotten him into trouble in the first place. Still, it didn't mean he was feeling warm and charitable toward the little bastard. Forgiving would be so much bloody easier if all the people you were mad at didn't so richly deserve it. _That's the trick then, eh?_

On the other side of the bed, Regina was watching Ursula work, with enough of an eagle eye that Killian guessed she had been told at least once to keep her comments to herself. She didn't look as if she had slept much, hair coming out of its usual impeccable coif, the sleek, prosperous madam of Antigua's most exclusive pleasure establishment gone pale and ordinary and tired, dress dirty and face smudged. At Killian's entrance, she glanced up coolly. "It's about time you bothered to turn up."

Something sharp leapt to Killian's lips by reflex, before he swallowed it. "Aye, well, here I am. There may be some breakfast left, if you're hungry. I'd like to speak with him."

"Oh? And what exactly are you going to – "

"Regina." Liam looked up, grimacing as Ursula hit a particularly raw spot. "Go eat something. If I start to die, I'm sure someone will shout."

"Liam – "

" _Go,_ I said. That's a bloody order."

She hesitated a moment longer, then sniffed as if she didn't care that much, gathered her skirts, and got to her feet with cold dignity, sweeping out of the tent as if making a dramatic entrance to a ball at Versailles. Killian moved to take up her vacated spot, waiting for Ursula to finish her ministrations and half-dreading when she did, as that meant he would actually have to think of something to say. Aside from the ugliness of the stab wound, he could also see the old flogging weals that striped Liam's shoulders and spine, the legacy of all the whippings he had taken to shield his brother from them. Killian waited tensely as she wiped her hands on a rag, then stood up. She started to leave, but Liam reached out to catch her wrist. "Thank you, lass."

She nodded, gave him a quick smile, and showed herself out, the drape falling behind her and leaving the Jones brothers with no further buffer between themselves and the moment of truth. They stared at each other, the silence turning increasingly strained, until Killian finally went for the most inoffensive and obvious opening gambit possible. "How are you feeling?"

Liam raised an eyebrow. "How do you think I'm feeling?"

"Sorry. I just. . ." Killian looked at the ground. This felt cheap, so he made himself look back at Liam. There was so much he could potentially burst out with, so many places to leap, but there was no safe ground to land on. "I. . . I'm glad you're on the mend. Truly."

Liam smiled wryly, but with real affection, as it surely occurred to both of them that it was the first time they had been together and happy since the journey back to Antigua, just before everything burned. He struggled to reach out a hand, and Killian took it, lacing their fingers together. Then he said, "Killian, the boy who stabbed me, it – it was – "

"I know." Killian felt a lump of ice slide down his throat. "I know who it was."

"What?" Liam looked at him, utterly shocked. "How?"

"I. . ." There was no way around it, no explanation other than the grisly truth, and he let go of Liam's hand. Bit by bit, struggling for the words, feeling it like his own knife under his ribs with each one, he told Liam what had happened in Nassau when their father found him.

There was, obviously, absolutely no possible way for Liam to react at first, even as he opened and shut his mouth in search of words. He closed his eyes, a constrained shudder running through his battered body, though it was impossible to tell if it was grief or rage or disapproval or horror that Killian could have done this to their sire, wretched a coward as he might have been. The silence remained towering, and Killian shrank in his skin. At last, when he couldn't bear it any longer, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Liam."

"Don't." Liam turned to him with a jerk, the words torn out of somewhere very deep inside him. "Don't apologize to me. When I discovered we had a half-brother, that Fa – that _that man_ did to him what he did to us, that because of it, he idolizes Henry fucking Jennings as his father figure and role model, as I was going under, I. . ." He stopped. "If someone had offered me the chance to turn pirate then, if you had, I doubt I would have refused you again. I just wanted someone, somewhere, to pay for it, for everything that happened to all of us. If that man had been in front of me then, if I'd seen him, I. . . I don't know what would have happened."

"You wouldn't have killed him, though," Killian said leadenly. "That's not who you are."

"Killian, it. . ." Liam shifted with a groan, reaching for his hand again. "Listen to me. It doesn't matter what I would have done – and as I said, I honestly bloody don't know that I wouldn't have. Don't do that to yourself. If nothing else, you know damn well by now that I'm not a saint, not a hero, not even a very good man. I'm just sorry that I couldn't do better for you, that I – "

"No." Killian's grip tightened convulsively. "Don't you dare apologize to me for not being a perfect father when you were a thirteen-year-old boy sold into slavery and left responsible for his little brother overnight, when you fought harder than anyone ever could to save us and protect us and keep us together. I. . . I understand why you didn't feel like you could tell me exactly what our freedom cost, not when you thought I finally had a chance to start over without the weight of someone else's crime hanging over us. I. . ." He stopped, briefly overcome, wishing sorely for a second hand to clasp Liam's, left with only the hook, the stark reminder of what exactly could not be changed or taken back. "I forgive you, and I love you, and I'm sorry."

Liam looked at him with eyes oddly bright, a sigh shuddering through him as he struggled upright with a grimace, as they leaned together, foreheads touching, in the stillness of the hut. They grasped each other's arms tightly, still unspeaking, one breath after another, until he said, very softly, "I never gave up on you, Killian. I know I left you after we crossed paths in Boston, and I know I can't make up for that, but all this time, I've still been looking for you, I've still been trying to save you, however I can. If it matters."

"You big stupid lunkhead, what do you _think?"_ Killian's voice wavered, half a laugh and half a sob. "Do you really suppose that I'll sit here with you having nearly bloody died however many times over trying to find me, and tell you that you didn't do enough?"

"I just. . ." Liam hesitated. "I'm the reason – or part of it – that Jennings is back in the Caribbean. I don't know how much Regina told you, but we found him in Boston, she acted to take him on board, and I. . . I should have stopped it, but by the time I found out, it was already done. And then we got to the Spanish wrecks, Charles Vane arrived and they joined forces. I don't know where the devil they are now, but I'll wager it isn't knitting blankets and petting kittens."

"She did mention something about that." Killian lifted his eyes to Liam's. "That man is evil, all right? I don't want to worry about how he got back here or what he did or anything other than stopping him. Are you with me, brother?"

"Of course I am," Liam said. "When I'm not barely out of death's dining hall, that is. At the moment, I could be felled by a particularly strong breeze, let alone a full-out assault against the most dangerous mercenary captain in the entire bloody West Indies. The _Jewel_ isn't much of a warship either. She's fast, but she isn't exactly bristling with firepower, and you. . ." He looked at Killian, his jacket, his vest, his sword and boots and hook, nothing like the Navy lieutenant in any remotely identifiable feature. "You've clearly got your own way of doing things by now. I'm not sure I can help you any more."

"Well, we should try to go a fortnight without subjecting you to another life-threatening wound." Killian managed a smile. "I think you've had your share."

"One would certainly hope so." Liam grimaced. "But. . . they said that you saved me. I'm not sure what happened, but I had some sort of odd dream where you and I were back on the _Pandora,_ but as men, not boys. You were there, and you were talking, and. . . I don't remember what you said, I wish I did. Yet when I woke up, when I saw you, I thought I was still dreaming. That there was no way for you really to be here. But you were."

"Aye. I had to." It was Killian's turn to hesitate. "There's – there's more."

"Than what you already told me?" Liam looked as if he wasn't sure that he was ready for a further earth-shaking revelation. "Well, go ahead. At least there's a bed here if I fall over."

Just that, the edge of dry humor in Liam's voice, of hearing his big brother sound like himself again, that they should be sitting here and simply talking and not in the depths of some terrible crisis or earth-shattering revelation, that they should have found their way back to each other despite everything, made Killian take a moment to collect himself. Then, even though this was somehow twice as frightening as having to confide what he had done to Brennan, he plunged forward. "I. . . I'm. . . I'm going to be a father."

"Bloody hell." Liam had to take a minute to chew _that_ over. He opened his mouth to ask the obvious question, realized he didn't need to, and sighed. "When did you find out?"

"Recently. In Nassau, just before Regina turned up. I. . . after what I did to our . . and he said so, as he was dying, he said something about it and I didn't believe him. And I. . . she wants to try, to see what happens, if we can have a future, and I want it, I want it more than anything, but Liam. . . I can't be a father, I can't raise a child. I don't know how."

"I knew nothing, as you mentioned. What makes you think I could offer any useful advice?"

"You're. . . you're _you._ It just seems as if. . ." Killian trailed off. "You'd be better at it."

Liam let out a short, humorless laugh. "I doubt that."

They sat in silence for another few moments, still both unable to properly wrap their heads around the idea and its full and terrifying implications. Liam looked as if he was about to say something several different times, but bit his tongue each one, until he could no longer restrain. "You really think there's any kind of a future with – well, with her?"

"I don't know, but. . . Liam, I know she's a bloody pirate, I'm sure you don't think she's good enough for me, but I'm the villain here. Not her. I've become much worse than she ever was, and I'm already convinced that by the time I get back to Nassau, she'll have come to her senses and revoked the offer." Killian rubbed his hand across his face. "And for that matter, I don't intend to let Regina near her, if she's still inclined to do her harm."

"Regina is. . ." Liam clearly mulled through any number of possible endings to that sentence. "Challenging," he decided on, which was, in Killian's opinion, rather a smashing understatement. "And I can't say I approve of Emma Swan, because I don't, but I intended to find her if I could, after you thought she was dead. If she's the mother of your child, I will protect her as I would you. Again." He cast a bitter eye at his assorted injuries. "For whatever little that is actually worth."

"Thank you." Killian let out a slow breath. "The Maroons don't think you're fit to travel, though, and I can't disagree. Are they willing to let you stay here?"

"I've no notion." Liam blew a loose curl out of his eyes. "I'd hope so, now that I don't need to go chasing you across the seven seas anymore. But. . . will you be all right without me?"

Killian had to consider that question carefully, as the honest answer was that he didn't know. His time without Liam to date had hardly been among the more sterling examples of his behavior, determined only to repudiate as much of his old life as he possibly could, and he didn't have anyone else to anchor him, to talk him off whatever ledge he was bound to wind up on. Still, he had left Liam at Eleuthera on medical leave before, and as they had unfortunately ended up with the repeated necessity for it, perhaps he could agree to do it again. It was best for Liam, at least as long as Ursula was here to take care of him, and perhaps they could trust in this to hold. That, after all, seemed to be the point of this exercise, and much as he loved Liam and was unspeakably grateful for their reconciliation, Killian had grown used to being master of his own ship, his own destiny. No more taking orders, no more having to bite his tongue, no more coming second to anyone. For better or worse, the _Jolie_ was his now, not theirs, and he did not want to further unsettle the delicate political dynamics (especially if he proposed to admit a large number of Maroons to their ranks) by giving them their old captain back, an alternate figure for those who resented his leadership and wanted to return to their Navy life to coalesce around. He bloody did not want himself and Liam played off each other anymore, and he did not intend to give up being a pirate. _Not yet._

"Aye," he said. "I think I can work out how to manage. I'll speak to Poseidon, see if I can trade your care for Lancelot and the others joining the crew. Is – is Regina going to want to stay?"

"She'd likely go mad within a fortnight, stuck here," Liam said dryly. "But we can't exactly return her to Antigua and Gold's clutches. If you could take her as far as Nassau, there has to be a brothel every other street corner, I'm sure she could find temporary occupation."

Killian was far from sure about this. Even if it was called the world's oldest profession for a reason, and Regina could doubtless be managing several successful enterprises within the week, he very much did not want her on the same island as Emma. He was able to see that she and Liam had formed a real concern and care for each other, loathe as both of them were to admit it, but that did not mean it would extend to altruistic forgiveness and tender treatment of the woman she had been trying to kill for several years. Liam had promised to protect Emma as the mother of Killian's child, even if he didn't care for her personally, but it was not likely to constrain Regina. He would still cut down Gold and Jennings in an instant if he saw them, and he had to face the fact that she was struggling just as hard with the same deep-rooted compulsion to revenge, even at potential and terrible cost to the future. If she and Emma crossed paths, any idea of restraint might go up in literal smoke, just as it had for him.

"I'll. . . see what I can do," he said evasively. "As I said, it still needs to be sorted. But I would really bloody prefer that you don't get stabbed again, so we'll work something out."

"Aye." Liam let himself back down onto the bed with a long sigh. "Well then, Captain. Go."

Killian blinked, surprised and deeply moved to hear his brother call him that, and glanced away awkwardly. Then he got up, leaned down to kiss Liam's scruffy cheek, and said, "Only if you get better, Captain. And likewise, that _is_ an order."

It took some finagling, as there were rules and rituals to dealing with any government anywhere, but Killian managed to secure an audience with Poseidon, as well as Ursula, Lancelot, Merlin, and Tiana, clearly the central decision-making council for the island. He couldn't help glancing at Tiana every so often, with an ache he could barely put into words; foolish as it was, knowing that it had only been within the mysterious wild magic of the vodou ceremony, he kept praying that she would once more turn to him and speak in his mother's voice. There was so much he hungered to say, to ask, to confess, and that simple, inexplicable moment of connection, however and whatever it had been, had opened a raw part of him that he had almost forgotten about, and now he had to come to terms with its loss all over again. But he had to begin to accept that she was gone, at rest, that she had said she had never left him and never would, and he could not keep looking back, whether at her or anything else. Had to keep moving forward. Somehow.

Poseidon was leery of the plan to allow Maroons to join the _Jolie,_ but had to concede that he could not very well forbid them, as free men, to make their own decisions and go where they would. Lancelot already had fifteen or twenty volunteers interested in turning pirate, and more might turn up as word spread. That meant further interrogation of Killian's purposes and motives, whether he was using this as an opportunity to acquire cheap Negro labor as a bargaining chip for reasons elsewhere, and he spent some while explaining himself to their satisfaction. They had just reached the skeleton of a bargain when Ursula abruptly stood up and said, "I want to come too."

Both Killian and Poseidon cast a horrified look at her, for different reasons. Poseidon clearly did not have any desire for his sixteen-year-old daughter to join a pirate ship, even one with a substantial number of her fellows aboard, and as a father, he _could_ forbid her in a way he could not with grown men. Killian likewise did not think it was a good place for her, and furthermore, he had been counting on her staying here to nurse Liam back to health. They had already said that she was their best healer and potioneer, someone who could fix whatever ills ailed the poor unfortunate souls, and sending her away would greatly complicate that. Killian had just gotten his brother back, and he did not intend to lose him again. Farquhar Buzzard had been lacking in parents who made wise naming choices and personal social skills, but at least he could just pay him and he would do the job. Ursula was not as simple.

"No," Poseidon said, recovering first. "Out of the question."

Ursula looked stubborn. "You've always said you wanted more for me, Papi. That you always wished you could give me more than just this island. How am I supposed to find it, if you never let me try?"

"You can't go with this – " Poseidon waved a hand. "These are rough men, Ursula. They live in an even more dangerous world. You don't know what you'd be getting yourself into."

"So you trust him enough to send Lancelot and the others with him, but not me?" Ursula put her hands on her hips. "Doesn't that mean you don't actually trust him?"

"I accept I have no authority to say where they go. I do for you. You're needed here. In a few years perhaps, but not now."

Ursula looked at Killian, clearly hoping he'd say something, but he didn't. What was he supposed to do, jeopardize the deal they'd just reached, Lancelot and the Maroons joining his ship, good care for Liam here? It might be unfair, but she had to stay. She was young, she'd get over it, and he managed to shake hands on the arrangement with Poseidon while avoiding the question. It wasn't until he was climbing the passage back to the surface, so they could prepare for their return to Nassau (he still didn't know what to do about Regina, and that was a hornet's nest he'd have to solve quickly) that he heard footsteps running after him. "Captain. Captain!"

He stopped, turning to see Ursula trotting up behind, as hazy sunlight fell through the vines at the mouth of the cave and striped them both in light and shadow. "Yes, my lady?"

"Please hear me out. I want to go." She straightened her shoulders, looking at him with eyes that did seem quite a bit older than her age; living in a place like this, she must have grown up quickly. "I won't be a liability, you can trust me on that. I'll stay with Lancelot and the others, and I can help on the ship. I am good with medicines and mending broken things. And I can manage myself, if there's fighting. You don't need to protect me."

"Aye, lass, I'm sure it seems an exciting adventure. But it's not what you think. _I'm_ not what you think. And your father said – "

"Is that what you'd do?" Ursula looked him dead in the eye. "Listen to your father?"

That rocked him backwards as tangibly as a punch. He had no idea if she had overheard part of what he had told Liam, or if she had just decided to throw out that stab in the dark and see if it hit anything, but it rendered him momentarily speechless, and she clearly knew it. Pressing her advantage, she took a step. "After everything you've said, about surviving servitude yourself, about finally getting out – how could you in good conscience not agree to take me?"

"It's not my decision. The bargain – "

"That's an excuse," Ursula said. "You could if you wanted."

"And piss your father off to high heaven, after all the work I've done trying to get him to trust me, when he admittedly has no good reason to?" Killian turned to go again. "I'd rather not have that on my conscience. It's been bloody asked to bear enough."

"I could persuade him." Ursula climbed out of the cave after him, refusing to be deterred so easily. "He's trying to protect me, but he might come around. What if that was a condition of the bargain? It can still be changed."

"You're stubborn, I'll give you that." He pushed aside a fall of leaves. "Look, I'll think about it, all right? You should have the chance to make your own choices. Christ knows I'd have hated anyone who could take me out of my life when I was sixteen, even if it was rather different from yours, and then didn't, for their own cowardly reasons. So aye, we'll say that you can come."

Ursula's eyes lit up, and she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him with such unfeigned gratitude that it made his throat taste sour. He had said that just to get rid of her, but hearing the words aloud made him less able to deny them than he'd wanted. The fuck was he doing, encouraging her? She had to stay, she had to look after Liam for him, she had to keep Poseidon happy – even if it was crass and indeed, _cowardly_ to sacrifice her wishes for the needs of men. She let go, eyes still sparkling, then turned to hurry away, and he stood like a dumb stump in the middle of the jungle, swearing to himself. _Just shut your fool mouth, Jones, before you do anything else you can't take back._

The rest of the day was consumed with preparations. They planned to set sail by sunset, as Killian didn't want to risk being away from Nassau and Emma longer than that – had his messenger made it, or had some new catastrophe engulfed the island in his absence and tipped it over into turmoil? He hoped not, but his pessimistic instincts were finely honed enough that he wasn't counting on it. The question of the _Jewel_ was also a finicky one. As Liam would be staying here, it was now without a captain, and as its crewmen were either borrowed from other Navy ships or pressed from the Antiguan docks, it was hardly as if they approved of this joint venture with the man who had forced them out of work and burned the island in the first place. They had been willing to go along with Liam as long as it was a question of stopping Killian and bringing him to justice, and they had developed a certain respect for him, but now that Liam was gravitating toward his brother, as usual, rather than their explicit orders, this was all sniffing very much like treason, and they wanted no part of it. Seeing two dozen Maroons climbing aboard the _Jolie Rouge,_ the very ship he had stolen and turned from its honorable service as HMS _Imperator,_ was the final straw. As Killian was standing on the quay, checking that everything was in order, the leader of the _Jewel's_ crew strode up to him. "Pirate. We need to talk."

"Do we?" Killian glanced edgily up the path for any sign of Regina or Ursula, as he was rather hoping to sneak out of here without either of them. He had already bid farewell to Liam, and as soon as everything was on board, they were gone. "And my name is Hook, actually. Captain Hook. You will address me more civilly, and then we can think about talking."

"Like hell I will. You're a criminal, a murderer, and a traitor, and what you deserve is to die like a dog, but your brother negotiated you out of that. We're not following you back to that seething den of vermin, so don't think we are. We have a duty to return to Antigua and lawfully report your whereabouts to Lord Robert, so consider this a warning for your brother's sake."

"Oh?" Killian turned sharply to face him. "So that's a threat, is it?"

"Did it sound like it? Consider it a statement of fact, pirate. You know what's coming for you."

"I said. _My name is Hook."_

"Hook?" The man scoffed. "More like One-Hand Jones, isn't it?"

Killian's eyes darkened dangerously, as said hand fell to the hilt of his sword. "Watch your tongue, if you want to keep flapping it. I'm not about to let you run to Antigua and tattle to Gold. If you're the acting captain of the _Jewel,_ here's your choice. Follow me, turn pirate, and let your men enjoy freedom and riches for once in their miserable lives, or. . . don't."

"What? You think we're all as weak as you? Turning away from duty and honor and rightful service, just for personal grudges and a glint of gold? Never. And that's for you, _One-Hand Jones._ See you on the gallows." The man spat on his boots, whirled around, and started to leave.

Killian lunged forward, caught him by the arm with his hook, spun him back to face him, and felt his blade already in his hand as if it had leapt there itself, driving the point up and in with his full weight behind it. There was a sound from the _Jewel,_ a rumble of alarm on the deck, as Killian twisted the sword, saw it emerge blood-dripping from the man's back, and hauled it out with a grate of bone, even as the man was stumbling, going to his knees, trying to say something, and failing. He fell heavily on the quay, the spreading stain livid crimson in the westering sun, just as Killian looked up and saw Regina and Ursula standing on the bank, staring at him.

"What did you – " It was Regina who spoke first. "Are you _out of your fucking mind?"_

"I'm not letting them go back to Antigua!" Hook shouted. "I'm not letting them run and tattle to Gold! Pity it had to be this way, but so be it! Now tell them to stand down, or I'll burn the entire ship! They saw my work once, they should bloody well know to take it seriously!"

Regina kept staring, even as Ursula's expression turned to horror. "What are you – I thought – "

"I told you it wasn't what you thought, that _I_ wasn't what you thought. And I'm afraid you're not coming with me. You'll be staying. Your father's right. It's for your own bloody good."

"Wh – " Ursula looked stunned, betrayed. "You said – "

"I know what I said. Now you get to see the truth." Hook wiped the blood off his sword, then sheathed it, gaze locking with Regina's. "And speaking of which. I _also_ said. Tell them to stand down."

Regina looked at him, at the dead man, at the _Jewel_ alive with shouts, some of them preparing the thirteen guns, as if that would make much difference against the _Jolie's_ fifty; if the pirate ship opened fire, the frigate would be blown to matchwood in instants. She didn't particularly care for the men, but she _had_ sailed with them, she must have at least some concern for preventing yet another slaughter. Or –

"No," Regina said, and shrugged. "Kill them."

Hook was very much on the brink of doing it, just so Ursula would learn good and well just what sort of villain she had mistakenly put her trust in, but someone aboard the _Jewel_ had better sense than his freshly corpsed counterpart, and immediately ran up a white flag. He had attacked the merchanter as well despite it raising the white, but that made him think of how he had then found Charlie and Henry aboard, and it punched through the anger and bloodlust, splashed over him like a bucket of freezing water. He looked at the dead man, then knelt, pulled out his hand, and fumbled off one of the rings, sliding it on next to the one he had taken from Edgar Johnson. _Don't you forget, you miserable fucking bastard. Don't you dare._

Some of his men went over to the _Jewel,_ disabled her rudder and slashed her halyards so there was no way she could sail under her own power, then paid out lines and tied her to tow behind the _Jolie._ They then offloaded the cannons, so even if the _Jewel's_ crew did cut free, reattach the rudder chain, and find enough hemp to patch the ropes, they would be utterly undefended, sitting ducks in a sea of sharks. They tied up the men belowdecks, went through collecting pistols and muskets and other armaments as well, then carried them all over to the _Jolie_ and added them to the pirates' supplies. With the added thirteen guns, that boosted their carriage to sixty-three – which, while slowing some of their speed, made them nearly unmatchable by one or even two enemy ships. They had an upgrade on the crew as well with the extra Maroons, none of whom had a problem with seeing their new captain kill a man before their eyes; the noose or even more brutal slavery awaited them, if they were recaptured as runaways, and Lord Robert Gold was particularly uncompromising where crimes of defiance were concerned. As terribly as it might have been done, they were leaving in an even stronger position than when they arrived.

Ursula was still standing on shore, staring holes through them, as Regina followed Hook aboard the _Jolie Rouge_ and glanced back at the _Jewel_ tied astern. "What are you going to do with that? Just tow a ship full of angry Navy sailors to Nassau and turn them loose? You can't let them go, you know. They're even more likely to turn you in than they were before. Finish the job."

"I've already killed one arsehole tonight, I'll let them think about that." Hook was not in the mood for anyone's society, especially hers. Not when it was too terribly like talking to himself. "And I already warned you, I won't be tolerating any scheming or devilry from you. If you can find employment when we get back to Nassau, you're welcome to it. But don't cross me. I'm not going to warn you again."

Regina studied him for a long moment. Then she shrugged. "You know," she said. "I really don't have to do anything to Emma Swan after all. There's nothing I _could_ do that would hurt her as much as however you're inevitably going to fail her, so I think I'll just sit back and let that take its course. You showed Ursula what kind of man you really are tonight, under the pretense and the pretending and the delusions of grandeur, and you aren't wrong. The darkness will win out. Believe me, I know. I've tried. It's always the same. Always."

She waited a moment more, to see if he had anything to say to that. When he didn't, she shrugged again. "Good night, Captain Hook," she said, turned on her heel, and went.

* * *

The morning star was breaking through the streaky clouds, the night sky turning blue, as Emma stood at the rail and twisted the spyglass, trying to get a better look at the low-lying fog bank off to the southeast. She wasn't entirely certain, but she had had a sense for almost an hour that there was another ship there, lying in wait, and they were well enough out to sea that these were not necessarily safe waters. As well, southeast meant Eleuthera, Antigua, or any other destination associated with Lord Robert Gold and the Royal Navy, who must be champing at the bit to avenge the accumulated insults and depredations that the pirates, particularly Hook, had recently been pouring on them. If they had recruited new ships to replace the ones he had burned, or if Jennings had somehow tipped Gold off, sent a messenger to let him know what they were doing and how he could back the pirates into a corner, the trap could be even worse than they had imagined. _And that is damn well bad enough._

Emma shut the spyglass, feeling an anxious clench in her chest. She couldn't get enough of a look to say that there was a ship there, but she also couldn't say that there wasn't, and she turned on her heel and made for the cabin. Then she paused, as she didn't want to stumble into any potentially awkward situation. It wasn't that she minded seeing Bellamy in dishabille, as they had lived in close quarters long enough that it wouldn't be anything new, but she would prefer to avoid it with Flint and Miranda, as it would be far too much like walking in on one's parents. Yet that had been some hours ago, surely they hadn't been occupied all night, and if so, well, there were worse things at stake. She knocked.

After a moment, the bolt scraped, and Sam opened it, letting her quietly in. He was half-dressed, breeches and stockings but no shirt, and Flint and Miranda themselves were asleep in his bed, fortunately with the covers pulled up enough that Emma didn't have to remark on their clothed or unclothed state. "What are you doing awake?" she whispered. "I thought I'd have to – "

"Shoulder was giving me trouble, I couldn't sleep." Sam attempted a shrug with his good one. "Besides, it wasn't as if I'd forget what's going on. What is it?"

"Come out on deck. I need you to look at something."

He looked surprised, but reached for his shirt and shoes, managing more or less to get them on one-handed. His hair was loose, out of its usual stylish ponytail and ribbon, scattered on his shoulders like black ink, and he had a few marks on his collarbone and neck that had not been there the night before. Emma was not going to ask, although vulgar curiosity could not be entirely restrained, and she glanced at Flint and Miranda, who hadn't stirred, once more before following Sam into the chilly predawn. She pointed out the fogbank with the spyglass, explaining her suspicions. "Jennings snuck up on me and took the _Blackbird_ with a trick like that. If somebody's lurking there, waiting to see which way we go, we could lead them straight to the _Walrus_ and Nassau, and it could also mean that Jennings is in fact still working for Gold, or at least hates us enough to stay allied with him. If so. . ."

"It would be the first vanguard of the invasion." Sam's lips were very tight. "Bloody hell. Fuck him. _Fuck_ him."

Emma glanced at him, as she couldn't blame anyone for hating Jennings, but it made her wonder. She had first thought of it at the meeting with Eleanor, wondering what Sam's demons were, where he kept them locked away and didn't allow them to change who he really was – but knowing they had to be there. She also remembered Sam delivering that casual threat to Brennan Jones, that he would pull out his guts and hang him from the top spar, and how he had mentioned that Jennings was the person he would most like to do it to. "When did you first meet him?"

Sam hesitated, fiddling with the spyglass to focus it, and for a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "When I was on Ben Hornigold's crew, after I first turned pirate. Somewhere down by Honduras. Williams and I had gone off with some of the men, and we captured a sloop – Captain Young, why do I remember the bloke's name, but I do – and relieved it of its useful goods. Jennings was in the neighborhood, still a privateer in Lord Archibald's employ at the time, and Captain Young sought his assistance in recovering his losses, thinking that Jennings, an agent of the English crown, would help him. Needless to say, he didn't."

"No," Emma said. "I can imagine not."

Bellamy shrugged. "Jennings took over the ship, put his own men aboard, and was probably cooking up whatever dishonorable thing he meant to do next, when he was distracted by a marvelous prize: a French merchant ship, the _St. Marie,_ which somehow managed to sail right into the bloody middle of the biggest pirate swarm in the Caribbean. It was too well-armed to take by storm, but Jennings had his heart set on it – even though, as a privateer, he couldn't legally take it unless he could prove it had engaged in piratical activities. He didn't care, and, well, it _was_ a stupendous target. Such that Williams and I decided we couldn't pass it up either. We'd already realized that Jennings wasn't there to stop us or act as we would expect a privateer to, so we came over and had a chinwag. The four of us – for the other leader in Jennings' cohort was a name you'll recognize, Charles Vane – decided to band together to take it."

"Oh?" This did explain some of why the terrible twosome were working together again at the moment, but Emma had a feeling the story was going to get worse. "And then what?"

A faint grin pulled at Sam's mouth. "I ordered the men to strip naked and paint themselves up, got them in two war canoes waving hatchets and shrieking like fiends, and scared the absolute piss out of the Frenchmen. I threatened that if they did not surrender at once, they would all be slaughtered, and they did so without a single shot fired. Easy as pie. We went aboard, intended to divide up the booty, and enjoy it. Only for, well, the next morning."

He stopped, surveying the fogbank. "Could be sails," he said. "I'll tell Williams to wake the crew. We should make landward before they get any closer."

"Aye," Emma said. "Sam, what happened the next morning?"

Bellamy turned to shout for his first mate, and once Williams had gotten the crew awake and on the lines, moving the _Whydah_ quickly across the dark water, he finally looked back at her. "Captain D'Escoubet, the master of the French ship, wasn't a complete idiot, just most of one. He'd seen us, figured we meant to attack him, and hid a chest of treasure ashore, worth some thirty thousand pieces of eight. Jennings wanted to know where it was, and D'Escoubet wasn't talking. That of course wouldn't do, not when he had an entire glut of hostages at his disposal. Jennings. . . you know he's an inventive man. I had seen to it that we took the ship with no fighting and nobody hurt. He did his best to undo that in a hurry."

"So he. . .?"

"Oh, aye." Sam's mouth turned grim. "He tortured his way through the entire crew until he finally got someone to break and give up the location, then forced D'Escoubet to write a letter to Hamilton in Jamaica, claiming that Jennings had treated him with the greatest of kindness and civility and should be commended for his actions. While this was going on, what should bloody happen but a _second_ French vessel blunders in there, and Jennings captured and tortured their men too until they told him where it was and how it could be taken. By this point, justifiably, I trusted him less than a vicar in a whorehouse, so I said I would stay behind with the _St. Marie_ and make sure we got our fair share of the treasure. I wanted out of this alliance badly, could see it had been a mistake to make it in the first place, but how do you deal with the bloody Horseman of War without him taking you down too? _Then,_ as if this wasn't enough, Hornigold finally turns up, a day late and a dollar short as usual."

Emma winced. "And?"

"I'll say to Hornigold's credit that he didn't like Jennings either, but we'd already butted heads to such a degree that I doubted he was there to give me any help. Williams and I, and half my men, were aboard the _St. Marie_ with the crew Jennings had put on it, with one of our war canoes tied up astern. When he commanded us to go after Hornigold, we surprised and overpowered his men instead, threw all the treasure into the canoe, jumped in, and paddled off like hell."

"Serves him right," Emma said. "You had to get out of there, you know that."

"Oh. Aye." Sam smiled mirthlessly. "Remember how I said we had two war canoes? One got left behind, with the other half of my men aboard it. When Jennings realized what we had done, he butchered them, burned it, and burned Captain Young's sloop as well, for no other reason than that he could. This after all the needless blood he'd spilled over the past several days, the torture and the misery. All as a lawfully sanctioned agent of the English crown."

He paused, staring at the horizon. "We also met a French corsair around this time – Olivier Levasseur, they called him _La Buse,_ The Buzzard, which should give you an idea of his tactics. He and I wanted to attack English ships, Hornigold didn't, and it finally came to a head. Hornigold was deposed, I was elected as captain in his place, and took over his crew and ship and power. La Buse and I sailed together a while longer, but he became a bit too much like Jennings for my taste. We went our separate ways. I was running very low on manpower as a result, and I had to press quite a few men from captured ships – only the unmarried ones, I didn't take the ones with families. They wailed and bemoaned their fate, and some of them ran away when they got the chance – at first. Then, well, we started to do quite nicely in the treasure department, and such attempts mysteriously stopped." He looked up at her, clearly struggling for his usual smile. "Bloody long story short, that was how I learned who Henry Jennings was."

"Jesus." Emma had known he was bad, but still. "Is that why you decided to go fully against England? Just because of him, and his total depravity as one of its representatives?"

"No," Sam said. "Believe me, there were other reasons."

"What other reasons?"

He gave her a gentle but unyielding look, and at that, she realized that he wasn't going to tell her. It took her aback, as she had become used to Sam's total openness with her – and in turn, she was used to being honest with him in a way she rarely was. It also occurred to her that he must have told her the kindest version of his past, with only a few hints at whatever lay beneath: that the landlord who owned his family's farm in Devon was cruel and venal, that he had left the Navy so he didn't get hanged for sodomy. He didn't dwell on any of these injustices, and he saw no reason to burden her with his ugly secrets, when all that really mattered was that he was able and willing to help her. How a man could have them, and yet remain as normal and clear-sighted and generous and kind as Sam was, made Emma's heart clench painfully, and she reached for his hand. "You can tell me anything, you know that. If you want to."

He grinned faintly. "I know, love. But it doesn't matter, all right? It really doesn't. It's something that happened to me, that's all. It doesn't own me, and I don't let it. Now come on, let's see whether those blackguards are lurking, get back, find the _Walrus,_ and prepare to bloody fight."

They steered back toward land, stealing occasional nervous glances backward, but the mystery ship, if there was one, remained well out of sight. By midmorning, they were in view of the arse-end of New Providence, coming up on the _Walrus'_ previous anchorage, only to see that it clearly wasn't there. They must have had to get away from encroaching bounty hunters as well, and Emma's heart sank further; there was no way to know if Billy had made it there with Charlie and Henry prior to this evasive maneuver, or if they were trapped on the island somewhere, or dead in a ditch. She gripped the railing hard, trying to fight down panic, as Flint said, "Well, that's just fucking wonderful. Have another brilliant plan now, do you?"

"They can't have gone far," Sam pointed out. "Likely only a few hours out to sea. And it wasn't her idea to come this way, so get off her back. It was yours."

Flint shot an odd, unreadable look at him. Emma had wondered if last night would lead to some difference in their dynamic, if Flint would soften in any measurable degree, and while she had already decided that she would be a fool to think so, he did seem momentarily without something sharp to blaze back. After a moment he said, "Very well, fine, it was my idea. As long as some usurping bilge rat didn't take the opportunity to filch my ship, we should be able to find them. And also as long as whoever's on our arse doesn't cut us off first."

There was not much of an alternative – they still could not sail into the blockaded harbor by themselves – and so they struck out in the probable direction that the _Walrus_ would have taken. Bellamy was back in command, as Emma had noticed that the crew was once more looking to him for orders and didn't want to force her role as interim captain past when it was wise or feasible. Flint was chafing far more than she was at not being in charge of the ship, though it must surely be enlightening for him to see one that did not rely on fear and mystery and deception and mistrust between crew and captain. But whatever had gone on at least seemed to be enough for him to refrain from critiquing Bellamy to his face, which was a miracle.

At last, in midafternoon, they finally spotted a ship ahead, soon realized that it was indeed the _Walrus,_ hailed her, and rode up to starboard, as hearty breaths were let go on all sides. Emma, however, did not do the same, until she spotted Billy on the deck with Charlie and Henry hovering behind his tall blonde colossus of a presence, and nearly collapsed with relief. They looked rather dazed, as surely the last twenty-four hours had been alarming to say the least, but it did distract Charlie from confronting her about all the dastardly deeds she had supposedly done and then lied to them about. _Small mercies?_

The two shipsput down anchor, and a council of war was held on the _Whydah's_ deck. They still had to think about how to do this, rather than just bursting into Nassau guns blazing – especially if Jennings had reinforcements on the way. Anne, for her part, was openly apoplectic to hear that Vane was an accomplice to all this. "We shouldn't of fuckin' taken him back. Jack had better realize it too. Better bloody do somethin' about this."

"I very much doubt that Jack fucking Rackham is the great savior to place our hope in." Flint arched a cutting eyebrow. "That title seems to belong to Captain Swan here, with how eager she's been to _talk_ things out. Angel of the Americas, is that you?"

Emma flinched, even as she couldn't help but think that Flint, having let his walls down in such a terrible and vulnerable way last night, was now putting them up twice as strongly, making sure to repel any invaders who might get in and see him there, cold and shivering and naked in the dark. It was something she herself knew too well, and so she decided not to rile to his barbs, harsh as they might be. Still, though, she wasn't going to stand here and passively take it, either. "As opposed to Captain Flint's belief that we all get ourselves killed on the spot without accomplishing anything useful, that is. Jennings has Nassau on his side already, and more ships coming. And so – "

"Let me guess," Flint said. "This is the part where you suggest we wait for Hook."

"We need more firepower." Emma crossed her arms. "Where else are we getting it?"

Flint looked as if he was being tried beyond words, but he also did not have an immediate rebuttal to that question. Instead he snorted, just so everyone knew he still didn't like it, and Miranda said something in an undertone that, for once, made him grudgingly subside. The next order of business was to sort out who went on which ship. Flint and Miranda themselves returned to the _Walrus,_ Charlie and Henry came over to the _Whydah,_ and Will and Anne did as well. Then, surprisingly, Merida, Macintosh, and the Darling brothers appeared on deck and announced their intention to rejoin Emma, having apparently had more than enough of Flint's crew for anyone's tastes, and thus did so. Billy looked as if he was tempted, as the grass would surely be greener under Bellamy, but at the same time, he was too innately loyal to the _Walrus'_ men, despite his manifold difficulties with its captain, to leave them for good. He'd stay.

With this sorted out, they settled into a tense, wary vigil, constantly checking the horizon for incoming sails and maintaining order among the men, who were understandably not thrilled about a death mark being placed on them by association. They were well astride the main north-south route between New Providence and the colonies, so if Hook _had_ gone anywhere in this direction, they should spot him, even at a considerable difference of longitude, if he was coming back. That, of course, was the gamble on which both Emma's personal feelings and their physical survival were currently wagered, and that was no problem, none whatsoever, nothing to completely terrify anyone. Not a bit.

She wandered restlessly across the _Whydah_ from stem to stern,until she told herself to stop stalling and talk to Charlie. As she came nearer, however, she discovered that Sam already had him in friendly but firm custody, giving him the lowdown on how events had actually unfolded as compared to Flint's selectively edited version of it, and stopped. She at least had memories of their parents from before they died, but Charlie didn't remember a thing, and they had only had each other for so long that it was poignant and jarring to see him with Sam like this, like a. . . like an older brother, like family, just as Sam was for her, a better friend than she possibly deserved. She remained where she was, trying not to look as if she was intruding, until Sam cuffed Charlie lightly on the shoulder, turned him around, and said, "Go apologize to your sister."

Charlie glanced up, saw her, flushed, and looked studiously at his feet, before finally shuffling closer. "Emma. . ." he began. "I. . . I shouldn't have. . ."

"It's all right. Flint's fooled a lot of older and wiser men than you." Emma smiled wanly. "And I should have told you sooner what I really did. I just. . . I didn't want you to be ashamed of me, or know what it cost to buy your future. I would pay it. You know I would."

"I know." Charlie swallowed. "I forgive you, and I love you, and I'm sorry."

Emma hesitated, then crossed the boards, pulled him into her arms, and hugged him hard. He was taller than her, so her head tucked under his chin, and they remained that way for several moments before letting go, almost shyly. Killian wasn't the only person she had to learn how to try with, how to build as many instead of one. She almost wondered if she didn't have to send Charlie and Henry back to Virginia – with things in the state they were, they could well be attacked by another pirate, and not one with any interest in sparing them for their connection to her. But more than that, if they could stay. If she didn't have to give them up again. If no matter the danger and uncertainty, they could build their home here, together.

The day faded into a restless evening, then a deepening night, without movement from any point of the compass. They were about thirty miles north of Nassau, roughly coterminous with the northern end of Eleuthera to the east, and that made everyone edgy, as this was squarely within the _Scarborough's_ territory. Not that a single Royal Navy fifth-rater was going to be eager to get into a scrap with two heavily armed and sizeable pirate vessels, but Hume absolutely hated Flint and might be willing to risk it – as well as against Emma, if he learned that she was the one who had masterminded filching Billy from his sadistic custody. "Much as I hate to say it, Flint's right. We can't really risk staying here long if Hook – if Hook doesn't show. Either that or Hume will force our hand, and – "

"What?" Sam looked up at her with a jerk; he had been distracted by chart readings. "I'm sorry, did you say _Hume?_ Josiah Hume?"

"Yes," Emma said, disconcerted. "He's the captain of the _Scarborough,_ he's a bloody piece of work. Why, have you had an unpleasant run-in with him too?"

Sam didn't answer, but the look on his face was all she needed. She reached forward, trying to put her hand over his, but he pulled back. "Sam, what happened?"

"It's. . . it's not important." He took a moment to compose himself. "Suffice to say, I knew him when we were both in the Navy, and he was a lieutenant on the _Windsor._ It shouldn't be any bloody surprise that they've made him into a captain, as that's what they do with all their worst ones. What did you say about waiting for Hook?"

"Sam." Emma eyed him, troubled. "What did he do to you?"

"As I said, love, it really isn't important. Trust me. It's not something to get in the way of anything we need to do." Sam rolled up the charts, reached for his black velvet jacket, and pulled it on with no more than a muffled wince. "Let's go up and have a look."

Able to recognize that she was being deflected, Emma shut her mouth and followed him onto the deck. It was quite late by now, and the stars were a beautiful spangled splash across the sky, the fickle autumn weather having settled, at least for the moment, into quietude. They paced the deck, glancing at the dark shape of the _Walrus_ anchored nearby; a strong watch had been posted on both ships, and Emma had just started to wonder if she should ask about Hume again when there was a shout. _"Sails!"_

She, Sam, and the nearby men ran to the railing, everyone peering at the dark shape that had appeared to the north, about ten miles off to port. It was, of course, hard to tell if it was friend or foe, the latter being a good deal more likely, but as it drew closer, all of them recognized it, and she felt something for which not even the word _relief_ was enough shake through her.

They used lamps and torches to signal, and the _Jolie Rouge_ veered toward them, as they saw that it had a second, smaller vessel in tow: a light attack frigate that had been denuded of its guns, its ropes cut, and was dragging in the water in a way that suggested its rudder had been disengaged. It was their captive, clearly, but why would a sneak attack be enough for Killian to decide to up and leave in the middle of the night? Prize too rich to resist? It certainly didn't look that way. As they rode into convergence, the three ships reunited for the first time since Boston, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest nearly hard enough to ache. He _had_ come back, but why?

More lanterns flared on the deck of the _Jolie_ , and Killian himself stepped into sight. He looked sharply at the _Whydah,_ saw her, and their eyes locked for a long moment. Then he called, "Did you – did you get the message, Swan?"

"No. What message?"

"Bloody hell." He sighed. "We had to leave because – well, it had to do with my brother. He was supposed to tell you that, and why."

"As a matter of fact." It was the _Walrus'_ turn to go alight, as Flint stepped into his own circle of flame. "Nobody was getting into the harbor, and that includes us, as we aren't all the way out here for a bit of pleasant evening recreation. While you were away on your tender familial lark, it so bloody fucking happens that Vane and Jennings have taken the damn place over. They stole close to £100,000 from the Spanish wrecks, they've bought everyone's loyalty, and put a prize on each of our heads. If you sailed in there unawares, you'd probably be shot to pieces."

" _What?"_ Killian stared at him. "Vane and Jennings – they – they _took over Nassau?"_

"Did I stutter?" Flint's eyes were frostier than ever. "You're welcome for the warning, by the way."

Killian took several visible moments to swear, almost but not entirely under his breath. Emma caught sight of an unfamiliar dark-haired woman standing next to him, and had to fight a sudden fearful pang that he had some other concubine or partner aboard his ship, that he didn't really want her after all – though to be sure, the expression on the other woman's face as she looked at Killian was anything but doting or affectionate. As if sensing Emma's regard, she glanced up, and their eyes caught.

Emma flinched, taken aback by the hatred in that look, as it suddenly made her quite certain that this must be Regina Mills, the one who wanted her dead – what was _she_ doing on Killian's ship, though? True, she had likewise been condemned by Jennings, so she must have crossed him somehow (the question was if anyone _hadn't)_ but that did not equate to her being willing or happy to work with them. There were too many questions whirling through her head for her to ask now, as she felt another of those faint, ghostlike flutters in her belly and wondered if it was just nervousness or the very first movements from the baby. She put a hand on it, hoping Regina hadn't noticed, as she didn't think anything good could come of it if she had. There was still a way to go, but Emma had come to a place where she at least knew that she wanted the child, that she would protect it as fiercely as Charlie or Henry, and try to work things out from there. Assuming, of course, that they didn't all die first.

"So we have to storm Nassau, is what you're saying," Killian said, blowing out a frustrated breath. "The three of us together. Is that the plan, then?"

"Aye." Flint stared him down. "If you think you can handle it this time."

Killian didn't answer at once, but there was something dark and dangerous enough in his face, as he looked back at Flint, that it made everyone suck in an involuntary breath. "I can handle it."

"Good. If my honored comrades agree, we can move in closer, get the lay of the land, and see just how bad our odds are." Flint cracked an ice-cold smile. "Unless, of course, the pacifists among us still wish to have their say?"

At this point, nobody did, and the three ships upped anchor, sailing in consort for about an hour, so that they would get close enough to Nassau to run a scouting mission but not close enough to be seen. It was past midnight when they dropped anchor at their new base, as Emma glanced again at the frigate tied up behind the _Jolie Rouge._ She had a distinct feeling that something was wrong, or at least not as simple as it seemed, and when Hook, Flint, and Bellamy had chosen their delegates to carry out reconnaissance and sent them on their way, the night turned quiet again. Then to her surprise, the _Jolie's_ smaller boat appeared alongside the _Whydah,_ and Killian Jones looked up at them. "May I come aboard?"

Sam gave permission, and he made his way onto the deck, glancing awkwardly at Emma. The crackling in the air between them was stronger than ever, but they both held back, nodding at each other like a pair of acquaintances passing at the garden party. She wet her lips, trying to get air into her lungs, wanting to ask what was going on, what had happened with Liam, why he had brought the other ship back as a prisoner – wanting him to hold her again, wanting so badly not to be alone for yet another night. But for whatever reason he was here, she doubted it was to fling all else to the wind for a night of blinding passion with her. At least this would shut Flint up about him not coming back, though doubtless he, being Flint, would soon find something else to displease him. Still, hoping that Killian would take the hint as to where she could be found later, if he was so inclined, she said, "Sam, I'm going to bed."

"Aye?" He looked up. "It's yours again. Sleep well, I'll wake you as soon as the men are back."

Emma excused herself, slipped into the _Whydah's_ cabin, and crawled into the familiar and comforting silk sheets. She wanted to stay awake, to work this through, to be prepared for whatever was coming next, but she was utterly exhausted, and she slipped under almost before she closed her eyes.

* * *

"So," Bellamy said, when the deck had gone quiet, the _Walrus_ and the _Jolie_ were mere ship-shaped shadows in the night, the ocean was as smooth as glass, and it was just the two of them, leaning on the railing. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Killian looked up with a start, taken aback that the other man had sensed his intent so easily, but he supposed he shouldn't be. He had had it locked in his head all the way back that he had to tell someone, he had to confess, he had to ask for help, otherwise he would plunge all the way to the bottom of the stygian well again, and he was not in the least confident in his ability to claw out a second time, when he'd already slipped so badly on the first. "This is between us, isn't it?" he said quietly. "Nobody else hears anything."

"Not a word." Bellamy regarded him seriously. "What happened?"

Killian hesitated, but came clean with the whole story – Regina finding him, sailing to the Maroons' island, saving Liam, agreeing to take Lancelot and the others aboard, and then killing the man from the _Jewel_ and betraying his promise to Ursula. Threatening to murder the entire ship if they didn't stand down, and taking them into custody instead, because he couldn't let them go back to Antigua and spill the beans to Gold. "I'd have done it," he finished at last, miserably. "I nearly did. And Ursula – I told her myself that I'd hate anyone who could have taken me away from my life when I was sixteen, and then didn't, for their own selfish reasons. I made it worse, I told her that I would, and I. . . I stole her choice from her, I stole her voice. Now Liam's back there, and Regina's here, and I've made a bloody, bloody mess of it."

Bellamy took hold of his shoulders, gripping him firmly. "Start with breathing. It's known to help out with living."

Killian tried, but the knot in his chest was too tight for him to suck more than a few shallow, pained gulps. "It was just so easy," he whispered at last. "So easy. The darkness was right there, and I fell straight into it. I didn't even mean to, I just – "

"Calm down." Bellamy's hands remained steady. "And Christ, don't blame yourself for not suddenly being bloody perfect, when you've barely decided to struggle out of that place as it is. Aye, you made a mess, and I don't doubt that there will be consequences. It'll be how you face them that decides who you are. Everyone can make mistakes. Not everyone can mend them."

"How do you do it?" Killian looked at him desperately. "No man turns pirate because they're happy with the world and have nothing they want to get back from it. You were in the Navy too, but if you're still friends with David bloody Nolan, why didn't you stay? It can't just be about getting rich. There are plenty of ways to do that which don't involve the hangman at the end."

"Indeed." The waning moon caught a very strange expression on Sam's face. He let go of Killian and turned to look out over the water as well, leaning on an elbow. After a moment, he said simply, "Are you sure you want to know?"

"If you – " Killian hesitated. "If you want to tell me, then yes. I do."

"Very well." Bellamy shrugged. "I left home, even though I was the only boy and only heir, because I was sick of the landlord coming by every month to grope my sisters and charge us money we didn't have. I was going to make my fortune, I was going to have great adventures, I was in love with the sea, and so, naturally – " his mouth quirked – "I thought joining the Navy was the thing to do. The _honorable_ thing. Familiar to you at all?"

"A bit." Killian looked at him curiously. "Sisters?"

"Aye. Four." Sam smiled to himself. "I was the youngest. My mother died soon after giving birth to me, and the eldest brother had died in childhood. My father remarried soon after, and my stepmother did her best, she was a sweet girl, but barely older than us. We were bloody poor, but I never noticed, because my sisters spoiled me and adored me and gave me whatever I wanted, even if it meant they went without. But sometimes, as I grew up, I thought. . . I thought that if I just hadn't been born, they would still have their mother, and that would be a better trade. It was part of what drove me to leave home, to pay them back, to get rich enough that we never had to see the landlord again, to win glory and be a hero they could be proud of, so – as I said – I signed onto HMS _Windsor_ as an able seaman. I was, coincidentally, also sixteen."

Killian shuddered. "Were you, then?"

"Aye. I sailed for a year or two, and it wasn't bad. Not what I had been expecting, and I certainly wasn't making any money, but Captain Nolan was one of the better ones. He didn't wantonly mistreat us or anything of the sort, and I had set my eye on working up to better pay, to perhaps a captaincy of my own one day. That, however, was when the _Windsor_ took on a new lieutenant. Josiah Hume."

"What? _Him?"_

Bellamy smiled grimly. "I see you've heard of him too. Aye, the same. You know how sometimes you can just look at a man and know there's something wrong with him? It was like that. He started off small at first, nothing too egregious, and certainly never when the captain was around – he was a huge bloody suck-up to him, anything you want, Captain Nolan, right away, Captain Nolan – but one day, he caught me looking at another of the crewmen a little too long. You can likely judge the reason for my interest. I was well aware it was a hanging crime, and so I'd never done anything to endanger myself, but that didn't mean I didn't have eyes, and I used them, if carefully. This time, however, Hume noticed. So a few days later, he contrived to come on me alone, in the deep darkness of the orlop deck, and. . . teach me a lesson."

"What?" Killian was about to ask what kind of lesson, and then realized that he damn well knew what kind. He shut his mouth hard enough to hear it click. "Jesus Christ."

Sam shrugged. "When he was done, he warned me that if I told anyone, they wouldn't believe me, and I would be the one who got hanged for it – he was from a wealthy London family, he had an officer's commission, and I was a penniless farm boy from the West Country. He wasn't wrong, and he had no intention of stopping. I was a pretty long-haired lad, and I would serve nicely for anything he was missing on shore. It went on for – two months, three? Something like that. Finally, Nolan noticed something was off with me, said he had overheard one of the men talking about how I was bruised and acting oddly, and wanted to know if everything was all right. It took him a while, but he got it out of me, what was going on. I begged him not to let them hang me, not to tell anyone, that I didn't want to die, that I was sorry, that I was sorry."

Killian winced. Anything he could say was completely inadequate, so he didn't, waiting.

"Nolan was absolutely furious. We were about to sail to Boston on our new posting, and he personally held up the _Windsor_ in port, at no small risk to his own reputation and career, until he came up with some good reason to force them to reassign Hume. He tried to get him sacked outright, but he couldn't – a full court-martial would require the allegations to be made public, I would have to testify, Hume would point the finger at me and claim that I beguiled him, and one way or another, I would have ended up dead. I take it that's when they decided he was doing a bang-up job and promoted him to captain of the _Scarborough._ We made it to America, at any rate, and when we arrived, I decided I couldn't possibly stay another day and possibly stand it. I resigned, made my way south, and joined up on Ben Hornigold's _Marianne,_ as a free man, as a pirate. And I swore that I was never going to be ashamed of anything about myself again, that Hume couldn't break me, that he couldn't hurt me anymore, that I was going to live as I wanted and be brave." Bellamy paused. "So I did."

"Bloody fucking hell." Killian rubbed the back of his hand over his face. "Jesus. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Sam looked at him frankly. "Does that answer your question as to why I'm still friends with, as you put it, David bloody Nolan?"

"Aye." Killian could barely get the word out, wondering if it was possible for two brothers to be as different as the Nolan twins, exactly alike to look at but such utter opposites in character and conduct. "Is that why you felt confident seeking him out when we were in Boston, why you were certain he wasn't going to hang you, even if he knows you're a pirate? Because of. . . this?"

"Indeed," Bellamy said. "So. You asked how I deal with it, and the answer is because I decided that the best revenge wasn't to devote myself obsessively to destroying the people who hurt me. It was to live, and live well, and be better than they were. To burn like a Roman candle, to rattle the stars. I know you want Jennings dead, and I don't blame you in the bloody least. As I told Emma earlier, I'm no stranger to him myself. If the opportunity comes, I won't turn it down. Nor if I get a clear shot at Hume, for that matter. But I'm not doing any of this for them. I don't give them the time of day in my head. I do it for myself. I do it because it's who I am."

Yet again, Killian had no idea how to answer that. He was staggered at the thought of it, that revenge could be achieved in some other way than cold blood and calculated destruction. That he could still be victorious over them by living, by surviving, when all their power and desire and evil had been thrown into crushing him. He knew that he wasn't as strong as Bellamy, that he couldn't keep the demons out entirely, that he would always have to grapple with them, Jacob wrestling the Devil instead of an angel. But he also wanted – God, oh God, how he wanted, more than anything – to stumble toward it. One step at a time.

"Thank you," he said at last, quietly. "Thank you."

Sam smiled, with real affection. "You're welcome. And in turn, thank _you_. I've. . . I've never actually told that to anyone, you know. I suppose. . ." He stopped, considering. "I suppose I was always afraid that they would tell me it was my fault."

"It's not, all right?" Killian gripped his hand. "If anyone ever says it was, send them to me and I'll kill them for you. Wait. No." He stopped, shaking his head in frustration. "Bloody hell, that's not how I'm supposed to deal with it, is it?"

Sam buzzed with restrained laughter. Then he leaned forward, kissed Killian lightly on the cheek, and said, "We'll make an exception."

The two of them turned to look over the sea, the stars starting to fade and the eastern horizon going blue. Another sunrise was coming, the world speeding inexorably on toward the moment of choice, of confrontation, of reckoning. When the boats returned, when the men told them how it was, when they knew what lay before them, and so at last, they sailed, thus, to war.


	27. XXVII

**-XXVII-**

Nassau Harbor was a broad deepwater port, large enough to accommodate all its usual inhabitants' flagships and then some, the fort commanding the headland on the direct approach and the shallow docks located sufficiently far in that invading vessels would have to face the full gauntlet: cannon fire from the ships, strafes and bombardments from the fort, and then launch a landing in small boats while under pistol and musket volleys from the beach. It was these key strategical features which made it a good spot for a pirate hideout, but the irony was literally murderous that it was now turned against them. To add to these disadvantages, Jennings had built a makeshift barricade of small craft, pirogues and ketches and rowboats, bobbing in an untidy line across the mouth of the bay. Inside this protected oasis, three larger ships were at anchor: his own _Bathsheba,_ Vane's _Ranger,_ and another that made Sam start, squint, and then swear. "Bleeding Jesus," he said. "It's the fucking _St. Marie."_

"What, the one you told me about, that Jennings unlawfully took and tortured the crew?" Emma was startled. "There's no way _they're_ sailing with him now!"

"Well, if you recall, he killed the French lot and put his own men on it, so it's one of his. And it means he's gotten enough reinforcements to need an extra ship, so he sent orders for it to come here. In fact, it makes me wonder just how many games he's playing, if he's double or triple-crossing everyone. Send word to Gold that all the pirates are in one place, infighting and vulnerable, and he can deliver them on a silver platter. Trick Gold into rushing to attack Nassau, rash and underprepared, and instead sail right into a formidable and fully armed personal armada. Once we're sunk, he's next, and there's nobody to stand in Jennings' way again. Not for years."

Emma shuddered, glancing at their compatriots. The three ships had arrayed themselves in a formidable offensive spearhead: the heavily armed _Jolie Rouge_ leading, the _Whydah_ sailing starboard to draw off any fire from the fort, and the _Walrus_ to port to run as a sweeper, first to hit the beach and clear out any resistance on the ground. They had left the disabled Navy ship, the _Jewel,_ at anchor a few miles behind: if nothing else, it would serve as a distraction for anyone coming up on their tail. They didn't have any cannon, so they could hardly pose a threat, but it still gave Emma a faint uneasy feeling. She'd ask Killian about it, later. If there was a later.

They were well in sight now, and there should be a flurry of action from the opposing vessels. However, they remained quiet. Nobody appeared to man the cannons, no voice shouted for them to halt, and as the triumvirate closed in, it became furtherly apparent that nobody was likely to. Either not expecting them to stay anywhere near Nassau after the death warrants went out, or to work together, or to be so stupid as to sail right down his throat, or simply because he had a giant pile of Spanish money and intended to spend it, Jennings hadn't bothered to leave garrisons on any of the ships. Even he must know that forcing half his crew to stay aboard, hot and bored and missing the fun, while the other half lived it up in debauched delight, throwing gold around like water, would be an exercise certain to end in complete disaster, and not for his enemies.

Emma and Sam stared at each other as they realized this, then turned to shout for Hook and Flint. Both of them, however, had clearly noticed as well, that they could have run in there in a leaky rowboat for all the difference it would make, and instead of guns – why risk waking the dozy bastards, slumbering happily in the arms of half a dozen whores, rum bottles clutched in both fists? – they simply went to as full speed as the wind would take them, and crashed head-on into the boat barricade. There was a horrendous din of crunching and splintering, and Emma kept a very nervous eye on Sam, remembering what the shearing mast of the _Asunción_ had done to him last time; she had made sure Charlie and Henry were safely shut in the cabin. But the small craft were no match at all for three full-sized warships, and it was barely five minutes until there was nothing more than a detritus of boards and canvas and crates and ropes floating in the morning sea. The great Sea Chain of Constantinople, it was not.

Now the _Bathsheba,_ the _Ranger,_ and the _St. Marie_ were the only obstacles between them and the shore. The only movement they caught on any of them was on the latter, and of rather a different degree than anyone rushing to fight. Several dark figures – Jennings' men or Vane's, or perhaps just the usual local thieves who had heard the promise of fabulous riches in easy reach – were scuttling over the _St. Marie_ like rats, looking for any extra treasure that might be hidden on it. There were distant splashes as they heaved useless bits overboard in disgust, so caught up in their orgy of greed as to completely fail to notice the incoming threat. At least, that was, until someone on the _Walrus_ decided to give them a friendly tipoff, and there was a glint of a trigger, a bang, and a puff of smoke. One of the looters fell spectacularly, thirty feet straight down, from the _St. Marie's_ sterncastle into the water, and heads whirled in dumbstruck unison.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Flint bellowed. "Which of you want to die today?"

The looters clearly had not wagered on the appearance of the possibly literal Devil Himself, with backup, when they larked out for a predawn smash-and-grab, and there was a panicked flurry as they followed the dead one's lead and jumped into the water, struggling for the shore with whatever fistfuls of goods they had managed to acquire. It was of note that they were hunting on the _St. Marie_ , rather than the _Ranger_ or the _Bathsheba;_ that meant Vane and Jennings were obviously not stupid enough to leave their record-breaking haul just sitting in the holds of their ships, and had already secured it onshore. The obvious candidate for such a repository was the fort, but if they were using that, they'd have to beguile or bribe or bully Hornigold into cooperation. As Sam had said, Hornigold and Jennings hated each other, but the promise of that much money could turn anyone's head, sweeten the bitter pill of cooperating with a former enemy, agree to shake hands and let bygones be bygones. And Hornigold hated Sam even more, for deposing him and taking over as commodore of his pirate fleet. If he had heard that Sam had now come to Nassau, apparently with the intention of doing it all over again, he might well have decided to ally with Jennings in the name of a greater revenge.

Emma's brow creased as she put these pieces together, the realization that it was not going to be as ludicrously easy as it was looking thus far. There was, however, no opportunity to voice it at the moment. While the _Ranger_ and the _Bathsheba_ alone were useful as bargaining chips, they had no ability to force their masters' hands without facing down the masters themselves, and so they sent men to keep watch on both ships, alert them at once if reinforcements arrived. Then Flint, Emma, Will, Anne, Sam, and Killian disembarked, only for Miranda to categorically refuse to be left behind _._ "This is my home too. I want to see what they've done to it. And I want to drive a knife into that bastard's bloody black heart myself. I've sat on the sidelines too long. I'm coming with you."

"Miranda – " Flint looked at Emma for help. "Aye, I know Jennings kidnapped the pair of you, and everything else he's done to boot, but I'll kill him for you, believe me. I still have that missed shot to make up. I can't risk you being in the way again."

"It's not your decision." Miranda looked back at him steadfastly. "I've let you fight by yourself all these years, James, and Jennings isn't your demon to destroy. He's ours, _all_ of ours. I have a death mark on my head, the same as the rest of you. Why am I any less deserving of facing our enemies? We're _partners._ Let us be."

Flint looked at her for a long moment, with deep affection and gentleness and pride, clearly realizing that despite all his ambitions and arrogance about being a king, it was her who truly was the queen. At last, he took her hand. "You know," he said, rough thumb circling on her palm, "when this is over, perhaps we. . ." He shot a look at Sam, who nodded encouragingly. "Perhaps we should finally stop. Let go. It's not too late, is it? We could have a home, a real one. Live out our days together." He stopped, almost abashed. "If you'll have me, of course."

Miranda looked back at him with that same depthless tenderness, the kind of bond that could only be forged through years and years of shared trial and suffering, of knowing the very worst and best of each other, of never being afraid, of never giving in. Sam stood watching, not saying a word, not doing anything except savoring the sight of them, perhaps because of his help and whatever he had done for them in that secret, stolen night, being able to think about confronting their demons once and for all, of no longer letting them control every bit of who they were and what they did. Looking at Killian, Emma could see something like that in his face as well, even as he stole a shy, sidelong glance at her. She looked up, and their eyes caught, holding onto each other. In the midst of this, in the calm before the storm, the promise was silently shared, in echo of the one made out loud. And both of them, no matter what, knew it.

"James," Miranda said, very gently. "What do you think?"

Flint shrugged, still with considerable diffidence. "I didn't want to take it for granted."

Sam cleared his throat, fished in his jacket pocket, and pulled out a ring: a lovely pearl-and-silver thing, fitted for a lady's hand. "I meant to give this to Mariah," he said, "but, well, I can always find another one. And that's assuming her damn father drops dead and we can actually get married, which I am starting to doubt. Anyway. I want you to have it."

"Are you sure?" Miranda looked startled. "I don't – "

Sam leaned down, took hold of her shoulders, and kissed her on the forehead. "Of course I am."

Miranda blinked hard, clearly fighting a wave of nearly paralyzing emotion; it must, in some way, be like receiving a blessing from Thomas by proxy, the man who had served as their third part, their missing piece. Sam dropped the ring into Flint's hand, cleared his throat again significantly, and waited with a pointed look, until Flint said, simply and softly, "Marry me?"

"Aye." Miranda held up her finger, and he slid the ring onto it. "Always."

They looked at each other once more, touched noses, and then, there was no more time to celebrate the engagement. The group started up the hill, scouting out for where Jennings had decided to lounge in his newfound luxury. "Where do you think?" Flint said. "Usual brothel?"

"Fuck, no." Anne spat. "Max wouldn't serve that evil fucking bastard. Somewhere much worse."

They made their way up the street, which bore hard evidence of several days and nights of unrestrained revelry – Jennings' men had been getting while the getting was good, and more than one reeling drunk sprawled in a gutter, or leaned out a red-curtained window, or teetered dazedly down the piss-and-vomit-and-wine-splashed cobbles. Killian took Emma's elbow to steer her around one such puddle of filth, and she reflexively put her hand over his to stop him when he tried to pull away. Their fingers brushed, their eyes met, and she wanted to snatch him into a kiss then and there, but she didn't. Not now.

At the top of the hill, Anne announced that she was going to find Rackham, and Will, though he was not eager to cross paths with Vane again, stoutly volunteered to back her up. "Look, at least he's already punched me before, so I know what to expect. And no use catching Jennings with his britches down – which I really don't want to see, by the way – if Vane is still out there being a twit. Besides, well." He looked at Anne. "You probably still think I'm a prick who talks too much, which I am, but we've done all right, eh? Not goin' to let you go alone."

Anne almost threatened to smile beneath her hat; despite her gruff and taciturn demeanor, and nonexistent tolerance for fools, loyalty was the one character trait she valued above all, and Will possessed it in spades. And they had been through enough that she could at least count on him in a fight, which it might come to if Vane's men turned on them. Jack would side with her, of course, but that still meant three against however many, and both she and Will were aware that the outcome was by no means guaranteed. They looked at each other, nodded, shook hands, and took their leave, heading down an alley and vanishing quickly from sight. Flint paused, then turned, took a scowling whiff of the air, and said, "Bloody reeks. We have to be getting close."

They navigated carefully among a narrow, dark warren of side alleys, stringing together some of the seedier brothels and taverns, until they finally reached one with a red glass lantern swinging by the door and the miasma of sour alcohol drifting out from the dimness. Emma gagged slightly, retching and spitting, as Killian's hand tightened on her arm and he looked at her like a mother hen. "Swan, are you sure you should. . . in your condition. . ."

"If Miranda's going, I am." Emma straightened up and wiped her mouth on her arm, eyes hard. "Jennings sank my ship and killed my men, held me and Miranda captive for a fortnight, would have had Merida gang-raped if I hadn't bought him off, and caused that entire Boston debacle. To name, of course, just a few of his crimes. Nobody takes him down without me."

Killian and Flint exchanged a wry look, as if wordlessly commenting on the stubbornness of their womenfolk, but also acknowledging that they had a more than legitimate grievance. They pushed open the door and proceeded inside, Flint in the lead, Sam next, Emma and Miranda between, and Killian bringing up the rear. The taproom was piled with half-empty tankards, men still snoring in the rushes or slumped over on the tables. The smell was overpowering, and they tried to breathe shallowly through their mouths, as Flint drew his pistol, looked from side to side, and beckoned them up the dark, rickety stair. It was strewn with bits of clothing and accoutrements, and Emma thought it was a good thing that she couldn't see what exactly they were stepping on. She followed Sam's back down the hall on the second floor, toward a half-open door at the end, which emanated a dull red glow like the mouth of hell. She couldn't shake the revulsion she felt at the thought of walking through it. _Abandon all hope, ye who enter here._

Just before it, they stopped. Sam drew one of his own pistols, priming and cocking it, and Killian loosened his sword in its scabbard. Flint's eyes swept them, checking if they were ready. For once, there was a hint of appreciation in his gaze, a recognition of the fact that they could be anywhere else, doing anything, but instead they were here, at his back, ready to fight together, and he could, if nothing else, be grateful for that. He nodded once. Then he turned, and kicked the door in.

Inside, the room smelled even more overwhelmingly of sweat, cheap perfume, wine, musk, sex, blood, gold, and gluttony. Jennings himself was sprawled on embroidered cushions, shirtless and tousled, with a whore in each arm, one of them wearing his captain's coat and the other completely naked except for the glittering golden jewelry, originally destined for some wealthy noblewoman in Spain, that she had bedecked herself with. Empty bottles were scattered everywhere, and even as the mercenary captain jerked upright at the sight of them, he reeled heavily and fell back, his usual shark's grin dulled in inebriate stupor. "Fuck 'r you doing here?"

"What does it look like?" Flint twisted his gun square between Jennings' bloodshot eyes, even as he must have been painfully aware, like the rest of them, that he couldn't just pull the trigger and have done with it. They needed information, they needed to know what other traps Jennings had put into play, if he had allied with Hornigold and taken the fort, who he was bringing to Nassau, and how to stop it. "Get the fuck up. I'll shoot you kneeling if I have to, but it would be far more satisfying if you stood."

Jennings grinned again, utterly unconcerned. "And me a defenseless man. Hardly sporting."

"You're not one to speak of sporting, you foul fucking whoreson," Sam growled, joining Flint in pointing the business end of his pistol at the captive. "At least you'll already look like hell when you get down there. I'm sure Lucifer will have an especially _warm_ welcome."

"Captain?" There was a rustle from a second pile of cushions, and a dark-haired teenage boy – indeed, the horrible, heart-stopping image of a younger Killian – sat up, blinking confusedly, as he extricated himself from the embrace of another whore. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh no, not at all. Just an exciting morning wakeup call." Jennings swept a hand at their uninvited guests. "Including, unless I am very much mistaken, your _other_ brother."

Everyone in the room went stiff, but none more so than Killian. As he and the boy stared at each other, as the air seemed to evaporate, as Emma turned to him in confusion and horror – she'd heard the story about how he had killed his father, but _this –_ what on earth, how could it –

Until she remembered what Brennan had said, back on the _Blackbird,_ the first time he had denied knowing who Liam and Killian were. That he had a son, seventeen or eighteen, also named Liam, that he had been separated from after a fire in Charlestown, and apparently never found, or bothered to find, again. _Another son._ And if it was this – if it was _him –_

"Well?" Jennings said. "Not going to jump up and weep tenderly on each other's necks? I thought that was the thing at family reunions."

"That's – that's _him?"_ The young man jumped to his feet, tense and snarling as a caged tiger, buckling his breeches and pulling on his shirt – evidently if there was to be a fight, he did not want to go into it bare-arsed. "You're the other one? Christ!"

"I'm well aware you already met Liam," Hook growled. "With the end of your knife, wasn't it?"

"He tried to kill Captain Jennings." The boy stuck his pointed chin at him. "And I'll – "

"You're really going to hate us then, you stinking little malfeasant." Hook's eyes were dark as a hurricane. He shifted, making a move as if to draw his sword, as Sam awkwardly removed a second pistol with his bad arm and pointed it at Liam Junior, while keeping his original one trained on Jennings. "But only at first. You'll thank us for it, eventually."

"Get out of here." Liam Junior took a threatening step, even as the hammer of several pistols thunked. "I'm not afraid of you."

Hook flinched, as Emma realized that he must be hearing and seeing an utterly haunting doppelganger of himself: the raw, abandoned young man furious at the world, desperate to defend what little home and sanctuary he had found, daring the amassed powers to strike him down, no matter how bad the odds. With that, she knew that no matter what, Killian wasn't going to be able to shoot the boy, especially after what had happened with Brennan. Jennings was watching in smug satisfaction; he couldn't have planned this better if he tried. The whores had woken in the commotion, and one of them squealed, jumped up, and tried to dart for the door, but he caught her by the wrist, jerking her down onto his lap. "No, darling. I might need someone to catch a few bullets for me. We'll bury you with the jewelry, I promise."

"You filthy, despicable excuse for half a man." Miranda's face was utterly white, eyes burning. "How do you even sleep at night?"

"Very well, thanks." Jennings shrugged. "Are you interested in taking her place? Remember, we never did make good on that offer of yours. I do want to see what you look like, naked and struggling. Whose life are you going to use it to buy this time? It can't be everyone's."

Flint spun around with a roar, not caring in the least about interrogation or restraint or what they should wisely do, about anything but ending Jennings then and there, but Liam Junior leapt at him, knocking him to the floor, and the two of them scuffled violently for the gun – which in a chaotic few moments, Liam Junior emerged with, kicking Flint ferociously in the face as he lunged for him. There was a crack, Flint's nose went crooked as blood began to crust in his beard, and Liam Junior scuttled backwards on all fours, before jumping up and pointing it at them, breathless and wild-eyed. "I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you."

"All of us? With one gun?" Hook spoke at last, barely sounding like himself. Flint was still down as Miranda darted to his side, grasping his arm and getting him to his feet. Sam was holding a gun on Liam Junior and Jennings with each hand, but he couldn't shoot Jennings, who was using the whores as a human shield, and if he shot Liam Junior, he couldn't guarantee that the boy wouldn't get a shot off at one of them before he went down. Emma's heart was in her throat as she stood half behind Hook and half behind Sam, clenching her fists as if she might suddenly develop magical powers and miraculously blast their way out of this. But she didn't, she couldn't, could only watch it unfold, inexorable as a nightmare they were all sharing, and one from which they could not wake.

"Listen to me." Hook took a step forward, stopping as Liam Junior's finger tightened on the trigger. "I know exactly what you're feeling. I'm guessing Jennings took you up here to buy you a woman, promised that he'd make you a man. Now you think you are, you think you know what you're doing, that you're bravely defending your family. The only person who wanted you, when the rest of the world didn't. But it's not going to work. Bloody look at me. I know."

"Stand down." Liam Junior's voice wobbled. "Stand down, or I'll shoot you."

"Aye, fine. Do that. See how it makes you feel. Joy and delight stabbing Liam, was it? Look at yourself. Look where you are, at who you're defending. You can't be completely blind. Save yourself, shoot Jennings, and you'll be saving the rest of us as well. Come on. Please. I couldn't do it before. You're just bloody like me, whether you want to admit it or not. You can."

The muzzle of the gun wavered. "No. I'm not like you. I'm not betraying him."

"It's no heroism if you're fighting for the monster. Even if the monster is you." Killian continued to face him. "Come on. _Come on,_ lad. Think. If that scurrilous vile coward you call a captain would dare to come out from the women he's hiding behind, and face us, we could see if he would even put his arse on the line for you. I doubt it. You're counting on whores and boys to save you now, Jennings? Stand up and fucking fight!"

Jennings considered for a long moment, eyes cold and narrow. Then all at once, he shoved the whore to the ground, rose to his feet in a smooth motion, and spread his arms, facing Liam Junior. "Now, now, lad," he said. "We both know you're not going to shoot me."

Liam Junior glanced at him, then at Killian, as everybody held their breath. The boy seemed to be struggling with something, though what it was impossible to say – Emma wanted to think that he wouldn't just gun down his half-brother in cold blood, but with what Killian had said about him stabbing Liam, anything was possible. She edged toward Killian, wondering if she could push him out of the way fast enough if Liam Junior's mood turned, if Sam would shoot him. But Sam could not be eager to kill a boy who did not really deserve to die, a boy who nearly was Killian and whose only crime was clinging onto an utterly unworthy man, because he was all he had. Flint would have no such scruples, but Liam Junior had Flint's gun, and Flint himself had a broken nose to contend with. If looks could kill, the lad would certainly be a goner, but for the moment, everything hung perilously, untouchably in the balance.

"Come on," Jennings said soothingly. "You know better than to listen to them, to the family who left you, to all the lies they're trying to tell you now. You know I care for you like a son, that I'm teaching you everything I know. You could be captain of the _St. Marie_ soon, if you keep learning so quickly. Sailing alongside me, winning riches and glory. Are you going to throw that away for the brother who killed your _real_ father, and wasn't even going to tell you about it?"

Liam Junior sucked in a horrified breath. "You _what?"_

Killian looked absolutely stricken. "No. Wait. It's – bloody hell, it's not – "

"Did you?" Liam Junior was even more stunned, blue eyes huge and disbelieving – as much as he might dislike Killian, he didn't want to believe this, wanted to pray that for some reason, his idol Jennings might be lying to him. "You wouldn't – he would have come back, he – "

"No." The word seemed to weigh a thousand tons. "No, he wouldn't have come back. I thought so too, I thought so for years. It was all I had to cling to, the hope that we somehow mattered more than we did. But he never did, until. . . until it was far, far too late, and I. . . and I failed."

"You killed him." Liam Junior had to say the words aloud, just to weigh their absurdity. "You. Killed him. You killed. Him."

Killian didn't move, didn't breathe, barely seemed to stand. "Yes."

"And you think – " Liam Junior choked. "You _dare_ to tell me you're somehow a better man than Captain Jennings? You're – you're not. You're worse. Beyond worse. You're not even _human._ You're going to stand there and talk about destroying monsters? Why don't you start with destroying yourself? You – you – " He broke off, gulping tears. _"You killed our father."_

Killian remained absolutely still, making no move to get out of the way as the gun rose up, and the sheer, devastating impact of it occurred to Emma: he was standing there facing his own fetch, his shadowed mirror image, who was telling him everything that he already told and believed about himself in his own head. That he was the worst, subhuman, irredeemable beyond all hope, that even Jennings was a far better man than he could ever be, and she tensed, poising to spring. If he wasn't going to make any attempt to avoid the bullet, if he thought it was his deserved punishment – she didn't _want_ to get shot, she didn't want to endanger herself and their child, but _if he wasn't going to move –_

"Just tell me one thing," Killian whispered. "Does he even know your name?"

Liam Junior hesitated, despite himself. Turned to Jennings, off guard, as if he couldn't recall hearing it or not. "You know it," he said, as if to brush off something so obvious as to need no confirmation, but which he couldn't quite shake. "Of course you know it, don't you?"

"Aye." Jennings smiled. "It's Liam. Just like that other brother who failed you."

That was it. There was a final, horrible, half-second pause, and then Liam Junior swung around, aiming the gun and pulling the trigger, as Emma screamed and threw herself toward Killian – and then someone hit her even harder, pushing her away, in a chaos of shouting and stumbling and the crack of the shot. Emma stumbled against Killian who clutched at her, both of them horrified but undamaged, and she whirled around just in time to see Miranda going to her knees, hand pressed to her side, as a spreading bloom of blood climbed her corset, soaking into her skirts. Miranda looked straight at her, and smiled, and fell.

" _NO!"_ Emma didn't know if it was her or Flint who screamed, or both of them at the same time, as they dove toward her. Flint caught her, lifting her into his arms, as they began to hear footsteps pounding up the stairs. If they were trapped up here, they'd be cut to pieces, and then –

As the door burst open and the first of Jennings' men charged in, Sam shot him in the head, shot the one after him in the neck, shoved them backward into their fellows to send them tumbling like quoits, and Killian drew his sword, hacking his way through in one smooth, brutal swoop. He reached out with his hook, snatched Emma's arm, and pulled her against him, the two of them lowering their shoulders and barreling through the men on the stairs. Sam drew his third pistol and fired into the crowd, causing enough diving for cover for them to make it to the bottom, as Flint kicked the nearest man's feet out from under him. Keeping hold of Miranda, whose head was lolling against his chest, he snatched Sam's last pistol, whirled around, and fired at Liam Junior. In the din and smoke and shouting, it was impossible to say where exactly Flint hit him, but he did. The boy cried out and went down.

As they stumbled out into the street, shouts starting to spread among the buildings, Flint seized Killian by the collar. "Where's your fucking surgeon?" he thundered. "The one who put Bellamy back together? _Where?"_

"We're on the other side of the bloody city, I don't know if we can make it! There's where one of the men said that Whale took a room – I don't know if he's still there, but it's closer!" Killian's face was dead white; he was clearly horribly aware that Miranda had been shot saving Emma, who was trying to save him, from what he could not help but regard as the appropriate punishment for his monstrous crime. If they hadn't, if they had just let him take it, none of this would be happening, and he hesitated a second, then began to run, Sam reloading his pistols on the fly and managing to get a few deterring shots off at their pursuers. They lost them among the maze of side lanes momentarily, as Emma didn't dare to look too closely at Miranda; her torso was soaking red, Flint's hands and arms bloody with carrying her, and she was barely conscious, face the color of ash. They ran faster, until Killian skidded up in front of a lodging house, ripped the door off its hinges, and hauled them all inside. "Whale!" he roared. _"WHALE!"_

They stumbled through a corridor and into a small kitchen, where the erstwhile surgeon of HMS _Imperator,_ the talented but mercurial and oft-inebriated Victor Whale, was just, by the looks of things, about to eat his breakfast. To say the least, he had not expected it to be crashed so spectacularly, as Killian shouted at him to get his things. Sam swept the table clear, sending the dishes smashing to the floor, as Flint laid Miranda down and Emma grabbed the candles, moving them to give the best light. Whale at least was sober, and after a final brief, dumbstruck instant, he leapt into action; he was used to responding on the spur of the moment to badly wounded sailors being carried into the infirmary. He got his bag and his surgical implements, a bowl of water and a bottle of alcohol, and with no other tools or niceties, went to work.

Emma couldn't watch. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen men gruesomely wounded before, but this was different, and she kept her head turned, feeling whatever little she had eaten recently very much wanting to come back up. Whale pulled out his pocket knife and cut Miranda's corset, then peeled off the bloodstained linen chemise, as Emma stole brief glimpses and then looked away again. He splashed his scalpel and forceps in the alcohol, then cut down, trying to get the bullet out, as Miranda arched her back and screamed, the gulping, choking sound of someone in too much pain and too badly hurt to get enough air. Flint's face was snow white as he held both her hands, and Sam gripped her calves, as Killian hoisted the candelabra overhead. There wasn't enough air, thick and hot and dark, and it was devouring them. Nothing but their united, agonizing desperation, to save the one of them who least deserved to die.

After a few minutes, there was a clink and a wet, sucking sound as Whale eased the ball out, a small, misshapen slug of lead, slick and red. He rinsed off the wound, and Sam snatched the tablecloth, rending it into strips with grunts of effort, as they tried to use it to get the bleeding under control. Miranda wasn't awake enough to scream anymore, blue veins showing in her face and neck, her grip slackening in Flint's, her lips parting on a drift of breath. They were losing her, losing her before their very eyes, and there was absolutely no way they could stop it.

And yet. None of them even hesitated. Whale fumbled in his bag for a curved needle and catgut, threaded it, and carefully began to sew, piecing the wound closed bit by bit. Emma changed out whatever he needed, alcohol or long tweezers or more bandages, as Flint and Sam were now each holding one of Miranda's hands and Killian remained in charge of the light. Miranda was still breathing, but just barely, the rise and fall of her chest almost imperceptible beneath the torn shreds of her chemise. They had finally managed to stem the tide, but there was no way of knowing if it was too little, too late. Nobody had thought about anything else, not going back or going after Jennings, or finding Anne and Will and inquiring how their visit to Vane had gone, or strategy, or retaking Nassau, or their own lives. None of it mattered.

At last, Whale finished the stitches, tied the catgut off, and snipped it, leaving a long, jagged line up Miranda's side like a mad scientist sewing together disparate bits of a body into one. He looked up for the first time since the operation had begun, brow dewed with sweat and spectacles fogged. "I can't do anything more for her. It's only a matter of waiting to see if she survives."

"If she dies, I'm killing you." Flint spoke for the first time, his voice a guttural rasp, the flames of hell reflected in in his face. He looked up at Killian, with utter, depthless, silent, heartbroken rage. "It should have been you."

"It should have been Henry fucking Jennings." Emma had never heard Sam sound like that either, beyond all cheer or kindness or good humor or warmth, everything that made him who he was. He sounded like a horseman of the apocalypse himself. "None of us. Him. Him."

"No," Killian said in a whisper. "Flint's right. It should have been me."

Emma reached for him, with no thought for walls or defenses or whether this was the right moment, taking hold of his hand and not letting go. After a moment, Flint and Sam hoisted the table with Miranda still on it, carried it up the stairs at a snail's pace so they didn't jar her, and managed to make it to Whale's room, where they slid her just as slowly and carefully into bed. She didn't stir, as Flint pulled the covers up over her shoulders, got the chair, and sat next to her, folding his hand around hers. He was so still that Emma could see the air moving around him.

They stood there for a long moment, in horrified vigil, until Sam finally roused himself and put a hand on Killian's arm. "Hey," he said quietly. "Come with me. We need to talk."

The two of them stepped out, shutting the door with a click, and suddenly Emma was alone with Flint, half-fearing that he might get up and bite her head off. She moved to stand at the foot of the bed, willing Miranda to keep breathing with every particle of her, until Flint said, so quietly she almost didn't hear him, "This is my fault."

"I – no. Sam's right. It's Jennings'. Liam – Liam Junior might have pulled the trigger, but. . ."

"I'll kill them," Flint said simply. "I'll kill them both. But it's still my fault. If I hadn't been weak – if I hadn't given in, with Bellamy – I have to be punished again, just as I was with Thomas. I haven't learned my lesson. Either that or it simply never bloody ends. It's too much to ever be forgiven, and all I can do is burn."

"No." Emma moved closer, reaching out as if to lay a hand on his shoulder, but not wanting to touch him for fear of snapping something. "It's not because of what you two did with Sam, for wanting to feel whole again, for needing it. You can't do that to yourself."

"How do you know?" Flint looked up at her, blasted and bleak. "Maybe some of us are merely cursed to be hollow men. Monsters, brutes, less than human. Cast up on a strange island after shipwreck and tempest and exile, Caliban in thrall to Prospero. Caliban did not know how to love Miranda either, would have destroyed her if he laid a hand on her. A villain, sir, I do not love to look on." His mouth twisted. "Which any print of goodness wilt not take."

Despite herself, Emma could not help but be impressed that Flint could manage to quote Shakespeare at a moment like this. It was almost more heartbreaking in a way, a reminder that the educated, resourceful, steadfast lieutenant he had once been, the man who believed in justice, in freedom, in forgiveness, who brought books to Miranda for their shared love of words and worlds that had been or could be, had become what she saw before her. She hesitated, then pulled up the other chair next to him. "We'll kill Jennings," she said softly, knowing he was barely listening. Knowing it wouldn't make it right, tasting the bitter, aching emptiness of revenge, all that was left when the world went up in smoke. "We will."

Flint remained silent, staring down at Miranda, for a very long moment. Then he said, "Who are the heroes here? Who the fuck, who the _fuck,_ deserves to win anything, or to be happy? On the one side, you have men like me, like Vane, like Jennings. On the other, men like Captain Hume and the rest of the Royal fucking Navy and everything rotten the system stands for. If you saw those two facing off, wouldn't you just want to send them both to hell, rather than choose a side? Pirates are scum and their opponents are even worse. There's no stopping. There's no stopping."

Emma didn't know how to answer that. She was reminded of Sam's reaction to hearing Hume's name last night, how she didn't know what he had done, but that it had to be something terrible. She wanted to tell Flint that it wasn't Killian's fault, that the last thing Miranda would want would be for him to turn on him like a starving wolf, but she also knew that Flint simply didn't give a damn. He had taken two impossible risks in the faint belief that he might still merit anything remotely good or decent – giving into the threesome with Sam, and asking Miranda to marry him – and been literally kicked in the teeth for it. His nose was starting to bruise and blacken, dried blood crusted on his face, and she hesitated a moment longer, then got up, got a handkerchief, dipped it in water, and began to wipe it off.

Flint hissed, briefly looked as if he was going to jerk away, and then sat there and let her do it, though he clearly saw no point in it. Finally he said wearily, "Just bloody go see what the others are doing. Burn this entire fucking island down. Something. I don't care."

Emma wrung the rag into the bowl, then set it aside, crossing the floor slowly and opening the door. She didn't want to leave, but she also knew he wanted to be alone with Miranda, and so she quietly showed herself out, making her way through the dim hallway and wondering where Sam and Killian had gone. Surely not far, not like this, but the grim truth was that while it might feel like politicking over Miranda's deathbed, they could not afford to sit here doing nothing. There was no way to help or save her aside from hoping that she could pull through, their enemies might be scattered but not in the least weakened, their respective ships were still in the harbor announcing their presence to everyone, and if Hornigold _had_ allied with Vane and Jennings, he was perfectly positioned to open fire on themfrom the fort. They absolutely could not lose anything more than they already had, even when that felt like damn well enough.

Emma entered the kitchen, the floor splashed with Miranda's blood and scattered with broken crockery, Whale himself on the brink of pouring some liquid courage after the terrible start to his morning. She kept going, ducked through the door, and found Sam and Killian in the tiny, walled back courtyard, talking in low, intent voices. On sight of her, they broke off and turned around. "Swan," Killian said tersely. "Is Miranda. . . is she going to. . ."

"I don't know." Emma rubbed her eyes. "She hasn't woken up. I don't even know where to start. I just want to kill Jennings, I just. . ." She stopped, voice wavering. "Miranda's like – she's my mother. I can't lose her. I can't."

"The shot was meant for me." Killian closed his eyes, face drawn and agonized. "Perhaps you should have let me accept my punishment."

"No." Emma couldn't even stand the thought. "I wasn't going to let that happen. I would – "

She stopped, as actually saying that she would take a literal bullet for him – even if she knew that if Miranda hadn't thrown herself in the way, she would have – was terrifying. Killian, in turn, looked horrified. "What – let my – my insane little brother kill you and the child? _Christ!"_

Emma pressed a hand to her belly, in sudden fear that all of this might have endangered it more than what the rest of them were already in, but felt another one of those ever-so-faint flutters, which weren't even discernible as real movement but made tears prickle unexpectedly at her eyelashes anyway. She took a step and so did he and then she was in his arms, silently shaking, as he held her fiercely. She clutched his biceps, reassuringly strong and solid in their black leather, sniffed hard, and pulled herself together, then tilted her head back and looked up at him, at them. They were facing utter hell, but there were no two men she trusted to walk through it with her, more than Samuel Bellamy and Killian Jones. "All right," she said. "Time to go."

* * *

The first order of business was to get back to the ships. They could not afford to be cut off and trapped ashore, and they wove another harrowing obstacle course among the dockyards and shanties and crates and quays, until they were once more in sight of the _Whydah, Walrus,_ and _Jolie Rouge._ It didn't appear that Jennings had made it back to the _Bathsheba,_ or that he was going to rush back to his ship and rashly forfeit his advantage; as long as he held the island, he controlled the terms of engagement, making them dart and dash around the edges trying to snipe him off in sneak attacks. Still, the decks were no longer deserted, and the gunports on both it and the _St. Marie_ had been winched open, in preparation for possible combat. If they weren't careful, they would find themselves pinned down and outnumbered from every direction, and if so, the only option left was to go out in a blaze of glory.

"Right," Killian said grimly. "Strategy. Swan, your boys are still on the _Whydah,_ and they'll be at risk if Sam takes her to do any fighting, but there's not any particularly safer place I can think of. I'm not putting them anywhere near bloody Regina on the _Jolie,_ and as for you. . . I know this is as personal for you as it is for the rest of us, but I want you safe. You and the little one both. I know Miranda said she didn't want to stay behind, that she wanted to fight with Flint, but look what's already happened! Because of me. I put her in danger, and I put you in it as well. Please."

Emma opened her mouth, but Sam laid a hand on her arm. She closed it, considered, and said, "Fine, but what about you two? How are you going to manage it by yourselves?"

"She does have a point," Sam admitted. "We're running bloody short of help. She's pregnant, I'm wounded, you're down a hand, and Flint, well. . ."

"He isn't going to leave Miranda until she lives or she doesn't." Emma clenched her fists in her lap. "I can talk to Billy on the _Walrus,_ he'll be able to lead the crew if we decide on a plan, but we can't just let them ashore to start brawling with Jennings' men in the streets. That would be total anarchy, and probably leave half of them dead anyway. And I don't have any idea who else we can possibly recruit, what with the – "

"Charles Vane," Killian said.

Emma and Sam swiveled around to stare at him, as if quite sure they must have misheard. "Sorry, mate," Sam said. "Did you miss the part where he wants all of us dead?"

"No, _Jennings_ wants all of us dead. Vane has history with Jennings and they've fought together before, but the only one of us he really wants out of his way is Flint. He doesn't know the rest of us, he doesn't particularly care. He's perfectly willing to let us die if it makes him rich, but what if letting us live made him richer?"

"Explain," Sam ordered. "Because you're not making a lick of sense, love."

"It's like this. When I met Vane outside the harbor, when I first arrived here, I. . . I can't explain it, but I just recognized him. He's been a slave before, that's what drives him. He'll do anything to avoid being one again. I have two dozen Maroons on my ship. If I can find him, I. . . think I could get through to him."

"Vane is a loose cannon." Emma's brow furrowed. "How can you even be sure he's been a slave? And how would this make him richer than just letting us die?"

"Simple," Killian said grimly. "We saw them looting the _St. Marie_ this morning, which means the Spanish treasure is off the _Bathsheba_ and the _Ranger_ and stored somewhere ashore. Force Jennings to flee due to his partner unexpectedly turning on him, and all of it is Vane's. He's the only one who knows where it is or how to get to it. All the benefits, none of the drawbacks. Best case, we sink Jennings before he can get out of the harbor, and end this."

Emma and Sam exchanged glances. They could see the madcap sense in this, even if the danger was twice as great. Killian was right that Jennings was the one with the burning hatred for them, and Vane had no particular reason to uphold the death marks, especially if they could convince him to join forces with them long enough to get him out. But all of it hinged on the extremely precarious wager that Killian could talk, threaten, or throttle him into cooperation with very little time to spare, and anybody trying to appeal to Charles Vane's common sense and higher moral compass would, to say the least, face an uphill battle. Yet they had no choice.

With that, they thrashed out the details. The _Bathsheba_ and the _St. Marie_ were girded for action, and Sam would take the _Whydah_ to the mouth of the harbor to stop any escape attempts (and keep both himself and Charlie and Henry out of the range of Hornigold trying a few vengeful potshots from the fort). Emma would go aboard the _Walrus_ and have them stay closer in, ready to fire on any rush of Jennings' men coming off the beach, as well as telling Billy what had happened. The _Jolie Rouge_ was their heaviest weapon, so while Killian, Lancelot, and the Maroons went to track down Vane, it would sail back and forth between its two compatriots, able to respond to an attack quickly on either side. At least Killian bloody well hoped it would. He was increasingly aware that his decision to make the _Jewel_ prisoner, kill the man who had threatened him, and take the Maroons aboard was not at all popular among the small but significant portion of his crew that wanted to return to the Navy. The Maroons were fierce warriors, but they weren't sailors, versed in the handling of lines and sheets and the reckoning of charts and sextants, the care and loading and firing of cannons and muskets, and even some of the ones who wanted to stay pirate resented the necessity of training them on the job. No doubt some of them also thought they could do quite well without two dozen Negroes with whom they were expected to share their space and their food and their society. Killian was the only one forcing the uneasy balance, but now that he was gone, the Maroons with him, to attempt a last-ditch audacious gamble that would certainly end with them dead if it backfired, and still might anyway, it was the perfect moment for lurking disenchantment to come to a head.

Altogether, he was not in the least comfortable with leaving Emma and Sam exposed to possible mutiny from his own men, the full brunt of those sixty-three guns, and remembered what Sam had said about consequences, of mending mistakes, during their conversation last night on the _Whydah._ But it was a mark of the direness of their situation that he still couldn't do anything about it, except cross his five fingers and hope they could either get to Vane, or get killed by Vane, fast enough for it not to matter. He grasped arms with Sam, hugged Emma quickly, and set off, Lancelot and the others in tow, to save their wretched lives.

He didn't know where Vane had holed up, but his instinct told him it was close to wherever they had stashed the treasure, and that had to be the fort. There was nowhere else remotely capable of containing such a prize without constant burglary attempts, and besides, they couldn't hold Nassau without it. They scouted near the foot of the hill, ears pricked for the sound of muskets from above, until one of the Maroons found a grated stone culvert tall enough for a man to walk through, at least if he bent double. It did not promise to be a pleasant passage, especially since the smell clearly indicated that it was used as a sewer, but it could allow them to get up there without being seen or shot at, and the olfactory assault would just have to be endured. They tied kerchiefs and cloths over their noses and mouths, lit a torch, and headed in.

It was a steep, winding, slippery passage even without the stink, the bobbing flame the only thing standing between them and total reeking dark, and they proceeded in single file, testing the footing and hoping this didn't abruptly close down into a tiny pipe. It didn't, though, and they kept on climbing until they hit another grate, a nauseating smell scorching their sinuses from the bricked cesspools beyond, and managed to get it hacked down. They hurried past as fast as they could, took a few more turnings, and gulped for fresher air, gagging. There could be no doubt that they were in the bowels of the fort (literally) and as they did not want to be taken off guard by a larger force, they still had to be very careful. They switchbacked blindly through the ascending passage, their torch having gone out, until Killian reached the top, ran smack into someone, snatched for his sword, and thus nearly killed Jack Rackham, who had just been hastening in the opposite direction, Anne and Will right behind him. Once they completed the mutual jig of having been knocked off balance and in momentary terror for their lives, they hissed, "What the devil are you doing here?" in such perfect unison that in other circumstances, it almost would have been funny.

"What am _I_ doing here?" Rackham repeated, being the first to recover the power of speech – that was the bugger for you, never without it for long. "You're the one with more explaining to do!" He glanced at Anne, as if hoping she would tell him they weren't actually in cahoots with Captain Hook after all, and upon receiving only a sour smile and nod, sighed deeply. "We were trying to get _out,_ clearly. I have no notion why you're determined on getting _in."_

"I want to talk to Vane."

"That's a really horrible idea, you know."

"I don't care. I'm taking it he's here, which is why you're trying to put some distance between yourself and him. Anne told you what's going on, no doubt, but, well, it's changed. He's your captain, you've survived this long working for him – "

"Barely – "

"You must know something to say to him. And besides." Killian looked at Will. "It might be Emma's only chance."

Will blew out an unhappy breath. "Look, the bloke is crazier than a shithouse rat, I really don't want to take any chance he'd scuttle up my leg and bite my arse, but I'm takin' it that the lot of you didn't sneak up in here because you were expectin' to be invited to tea. What's going on?"

Briefly as he could, Killian explained the situation, which left Rackham, Anne, and Will looking even more stupendously dubious than when he started. "Well, you've fucked the dog good and proper, haven't you?" Will said, which was about the level of blunt assessment he deserved. "Now your own ship might turn against you, Miranda's dying, Jennings is on the warpath, and our chances of surviving hinge on your ability to make Vane be reasonable. Next time can you, I dunno, sit down until the thought goes away?"

"I know this is all my fault, all right?" Killian racked his hand over his face. "Believe me, I do. But it doesn't matter, unless we get to Vane. Please."

Rackham and Anne exchanged a glance, their hands grasping each other's in the dark, and some wordless decision passed between them. Then Rackham said gloomily, "Fine. Come on."

Leaving the Maroons except for Lancelot behind, so as not to surprise Vane with a large hostile force, as well as to keep the way clear for a quick exit, the five of them turned up a broader passage, which slanted steeply into an earthen bank and then out into the foundation stones of the fort. Rackham ducked under the berm, looked both ways, and then beckoned them across the garth to the door on the far side. He got the bar down, took the stairs, and finally emerged in a central chamber, walls thick and air cool, that was piled with sacks, crates, chests, and barrels, the glint of gold visible through burlap edges and wooden planks, the vast haul of the raided Spanish treasure. And standing there like an emperor gazing upon his dominions, arms folded, still as a statue, was Charles Vane, alone.

Rackham put his hands up, clearly a sensible precaution, and everyone else followed suit. Voice echoing in the dimness, he said, "Charles."

Vane whirled, going for his pistol, before seeing who it was. This did not cause him to put away said pistol, just to point it at Hook instead. "The fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm not trying to steal your treasure, mate, so ease up. Though I seem to recall it's thanks to me that you knew where to find it in the first place, so perhaps you owe me a favor? And don't try to say that it wasn't blowing me out of the water when we met. I had twice your guns, I could have sunk you. Listen to me. How would you like to have all that money for yourself, instead of sharing it with Jennings, and. . ." Killian inhaled. Here came the tricky part. "And fight alongside the other slaves?"

Vane's eyes burned at him like a blue inferno. He did not, however, deny it, which made Killian wonder if Vane had likewise recognized him, in that brief, uncanny instant. His gaze flickered from him to Lancelot, until finally he turned on his heel and said, "One minute."

Killian, having already boiled it down to essentials for his previous explanation, got this one out even faster, as Vane listened with a glacial expression. That at least was preferable to open rage, and he snorted, but did not immediately order them to get out, when Killian was done. Then he rasped, "What? And I believe you're content to let me remain the master of Nassau, all the money and leverage in my hands, rather than making it your next job to topple me?"

"All I want is the death marks rescinded." Killian looked at him coolly. "All of them, even the one on Flint. You two can fight it out as you always have, but if I'm not much mistaken, there's no way you're going to let some guttersnipe have the privilege of killing him, rather than getting to do it yourself. For better or worse, you love this place too, or at least your life as a pirate. Jennings doesn't give a damn. He might have already handed all of us back over to Gold, he was working with him less than two months ago. He'll destroy every one of us if the price is right, and don't tell me you don't know that."

Vane snorted again, but still did not demur. He eyed them up and down, warily as a stalking cat. "Fuck knows it sticks in my craw enough to be working with that fat fuck Hornigold," he said at last. "Could be we could throw him out of here, hold the fort on our own terms, not someone who's just as likely to hand us over to the bloody Crown if he gets the first chance. Never understood how that one managed to go pirate in the first place, aside from greed. So – what? I help you run Jennings out of here, and then we're bosom friends and boon companions?"

"I doubt it." Killian kept looking at him flatly. "But consider this. Flint's down for the count right now. Whatever you do, it's yours, your victory, your chance to put your stamp on the place. Once again. Don't bloody tell me you don't want that."

Vane kept staring at him, until at last he seemed on the verge of speech. He, however, did not get the chance. That was because at that moment, they were interrupted by a low, thundering boom, outside the walls of the fort. And then – ninety seconds later, exactly the amount of time it took a well-trained Navy crew to fire a second broadside after the first – another.

Killian's heart caught in a shriveling catarrh. He ran to one of the arrow slits, peering through the thick stone, praying that it wasn't what he feared exactly it had been. Heavy smoke was starting to plume skyward, obscuring the precise entanglements, but he could make out enough. It was the _Jolie,_ and it had just opened fire on the _Whydah_. The _Walrus_ was making hell-for-leather for her cohort, thus having to relinquish her position guarding the beach, and the _Bathsheba_ and the _St. Marie_ were converging on her from the rear, clearly seizing the golden opportunity to finish the job once and for all. If Emma and Sam were cornered and outgunned on three fronts at once, including from his – oh Christ, oh _Christ –_ they'd be cut to pieces in minutes.

He remained in a horrified trance an instant longer, before spinning back to face Vane. "Jesus. Jesus Christ, please. That's my fucking ship, it has sixty-three cannons! The ones who want to go back to the Navy must have made a pact to rise up together – or some of them decided to take the Spanish money sitting in this fucking fort, or – Jesus, if you don't do something, Jennings and Gold _and_ the Crown will take over this place by the end of the week, and then we _all_ dance a bloody gallows jig!"

"So it is the _Jolie?"_ Will looked at him in horror. "They turned on you after all? What the bloody hell did you do, when you were away?"

"I said it was my fault!" Hook was almost frantic. Could hear Flint's prophetic warning, on the occasion of their first meeting as they maneuvered a delicate alliance. _Mark me, it's always easier to start off with success than it is to sustain it. And while you may have an advantage by coming in this way, your men won't see you as their only choice forever. If you haven't won their respect, and their fear, and held it, the view from the other side isn't nearly as pleasant._ He had already known it was getting dangerous, known he had pushed his luck – but he had also subconsciously assumed that they _didn't_ have any other choice, would just have to do what he ordered, or leave. Not this. Not now.

Vane considered him an instant longer, then without a word, spun around and slung his pistol back through his belt. He jerked up a fist, and they rattled out on his heels, retrieved the Maroons, and peeled out of the fort – with a warning from Vane that if they were using this as an opportunity to distract him so they could send in a raiding party and clean the place out, he'd shoot them where they stood. But they made it to the harbor in double-quick time, swung aboard the _Ranger,_ and Vane bellowed at the top of his lungs to load the guns. Then he ordered his crew to launch burning barrels at the nearby smaller craft, which made no sense to Hook. The devil was that going to do, aside from create _more_ chaos and disorder in the already thoroughly chaotic harbor? The _Jolie_ and the _Whydah_ were exchanging thundering salvos, as yet still going head-to-head, but the _Whydah,_ while it ran heavily armed for a pirate ship at thirty-six guns, was taking the brunt of nearly twice her carriage. _Couldn't be more ironic that you specially put those extra ones aboard after imprisoning the_ Jewel, _eh? One-Hand Jones?_

The _Walrus_ was trying to fend off the _Bathsheba_ on port and the _St. Marie_ to starboard, and clearly losing sail. Vane sized up the situation, barked an order, and a final payload of barrels, burning and popping pitch and tar, landed in the smaller craft. Flames began to spit up the lines and timbers as men jumped off them, shouting. It was in that instant, as the burning boats started to coast and veer toward the line of battle, that Hook understood. _Fireships._

At a further roar from Vane, the _Ranger_ went full speed ahead, charged up on the _St. Marie's_ port quarter so closely that paint scratched and timbers groaned, and unloaded a full broadside into her at point-blank range. The _Walrus_ was still beleaguered by the _Bathsheba_ on the other side, but this scraped off her second attacker almost cleanly, and Hook had to take a minute to be starkly impressed by Vane's absolutely brutal fighting style. The French merchant-ship-turned-privateer was listing badly, unable to outrace the fireships slewing up out of control behind her, and the next instant, the _St. Marie_ was burning like a solstice bonfire. The noise was, quite simply, hell itself.

Hook shielded his eyes against the inferno as Vane grabbed the helm himself, aiming the _Ranger_ toward the ongoing tangle between the _Jolie_ and the _Whydah._ The _Bathsheba_ had broken off in confusion, unsure what to make of its ally suddenly turning on it, and as he turned his head, Hook caught sight of Jennings on the deck, looking almost alarmed. Evidently he had finally been forced to come out and take a stand himself, and if they could just get one clean shot at the evil fucking bastard, _one,_ end this (at least until the Navy invasion arrived with bloody Gold, Hook supposed) and pay back all the torture and the suffering and the woe –

The _Whydah,_ however, was still in trouble, and they needed to get Hook and the Maroons back aboard the _Jolie_ right now, to see if there was any chance of stopping the mutiny. They raced across the harbor, the _Walrus_ managing to recollect herself and fire a few return rounds at the _Bathsheba –_ Christ, Emma was all right, she had to be all right, there was no one else who could captain both Bellamy and Flint's ships in their stead and be so bloody brilliant with them. Then they were riding up hard astern of the _Jolie,_ somebody pointed a gun at them, and Anne swung a musket to her shoulder, closed one eye, and shot him through the thorax. The mutineer plunged like a rock, and Hook and Rackham both turned to stare at her. Rackham's pride and love was evident in his expression, and it made Hook feel a glimmer of camaraderie with the bugger, weak chin and all. At least both of them could appreciate a strong and fearless pirate woman.

Vane wrestled them almost abreast of the _Jolie,_ the fleet, light _Ranger_ able to keep just ahead of the heavier, slower ex-third rater. There was an almighty commotion aboard, the pirates loyal to Hook struggling to retake it from their traitorous compatriots, and Hook himself had a terrible realization that if he blazed back in there, he was going to have to kill his own men. Navy sailors who had followed him faithfully as long as it was him and Liam and a tidy, ordered, lawful existence, who had been with them on all sorts of hair-raising adventures and battles throughout the war. And now, return as a pirate and take them down in cold blood, because they wanted that life back, and had chosen this moment to try.

There was no more time for reflection. The deck was less than fifty feet away from him, awash in smoke and shouts and shots and running figures, and the Maroons were grabbing ropes. To Hook's left, Will grabbed one too – then Anne did, and that of course meant Rackham took a third. And of course Hook himself would not turn away, and then they were all plunging in there like angels thrown out of heaven (though it was far too complimentary to think there was anything angelic about them) and hitting the deck with thuds and crashes, and the war was on.

He battled his way across the boards, harder than he had ever fought anywhere, for anything, toward the mutineer at the helm, who was intent on driving them broadside into the _Whydah._ See how well he did with three feet of steel through the belly, hope it wasn't too late to avoid the collision – had a mad memory of shooting Felix in the head to stop him from doing just this with the _Blackbird_ , but now it was their own ship on a suicide run, for them and for Sam and Charlie and Henry – he hauled the man off the wheel with his hook, spun him around –

– and froze.

It was the purser. Hawkins. The one who had sailed with the Jones brothers since the beginning of their career and always managed their money well. They had stayed with his wife, Sarah, at the Benbow Inn on the Bristol waterfront, many a time, and she had given birth to a son just before they shipped out with Gold: little Jim. Killian had known that Hawkins had questions about how he had handled the situation, as he had politely confronted him right before they got back to Eleuthera, but he hadn't – he had never thought it would extend to taking up with the underground effort to overthrow him – if Hawkins thought he was doing it for Killian's own good, to get him to see sense and return them to the way they had always been –

His sword went slack in his hand as they stared at each other. Hawkins didn't look surprised to see him, only sad. "Captain," he said. "I was only doing my duty as a commissioned officer of the Royal Navy aboard this vessel. Kill me now, if you're going to, but it doesn't change the fact that there is no future for you, or any of these men, as a pirate. I know what happened to you and Liam wasn't right, wasn't fair, wasn't just. But I couldn't stand by and watch our entire crew be marched to the gallows, so I did what I had to. If you give the Admiralty a prize like Bellamy, they'll forgive you, they'll wipe the charge sheet clean. Listen to me, don't throw it away and – "

"That's what you want me to do?" Hook's throat felt thick. "Hand Bellamy over to the Navy, to Captain Josiah fucking Hume, and think it will buy my freedom and absolution? After what I did to Antigua and Jamaica? When they'll never bloody forgive me anyway, and if I bought it with Sam's life, I'd never forgive myself? I expected August Booth's betrayal! I never thought it would be yours too!"

Hawkins held his gaze unflinchingly. "Sam Bellamy is a pirate. They don't get points for character. He'll meet the same fate as a Flint or a Vane, and so will you. I care about you like a son, you and Liam – I have to save you, if I possibly – "

"Care about us like a son? You know how my father cared about me like a son? Sold us into slavery, and now you want to do the same to me all over again? I think we've had more than enough of that kind of help." Hook's voice cracked, ever so slightly, as he took a firmer grip on his sword. "I'm sorry. I am. I never wanted it to be this way, never saw it ending like this. But I am never going back, and I told Sam I'd kill anyone who wanted to hurt him. I'm sorry."

With that, almost gently, he eased his sword into Hawkins' chest, once and quick and deep, until it could go no further. He twisted it, then pulled it out, even as the madness was still carrying on unabated. They were dangerously close to the _Whydah_ with very little chance to reverse course, and there was no way of knowing how much damage the mutineers' bombardments had already caused. Hook seized the helm and spun it with all his strength, even as he could just glimpse Sam doing likewise. Not enough, not far enough, not enough, never, never bloody enough –

At the last instant the prows of both ships shifted, and a head-on collision was turned into a glancing, scraping, screaming one, spars and shrouds and blocks and tackles popping, locking them together and dragging them to a near-standstill. They slewed dead in the water, a heavy chunk of rigging nearly taking out half a dozen Maroons as it crashed to the _Jolie's_ deck, and stayed there, unable to extricate themselves, as the _Bathsheba_ bore down on them, Jennings presented with the perfect opportunity to blow them both sky-high. It was impossible to see more than a few yards through the smoke, and neither the _Jolie_ nor the _Whydah_ could fire on him without hitting each other. They just sat there like derelict hulks, waiting for the hammer to fall.

Then out of nowhere, the _Bathsheba_ was blasted sideways, its cannon fire spraying harmlessly wide, as the _Ranger_ rode up on it like a vengeful dark shadow. The smoke billowed apart long enough for Hook to see that the _Walrus_ was trapped by the fireships – not burning, but having to scramble to fend them off or douse them before they got any closer – and wondered if Vane had planned that as well. Destroy Flint's ship while he was at it, just as a parting fuck-you, while Flint wasn't around to contest it. Then again, fireships were notoriously impossible to control once they were deployed, a floating agent of destruction that could burn either friend or foe, the kind of tactic that appealed to somebody of Vane's chaos-causing sensibilities. The _St. Marie_ was on her side, sails in the water and hull collapsing inward, smoke belching from the ruin of her timbers and men drowning noisily in the soot-washed waves. The beach was starting to throng with staring onlookers; Nassau had never seen a battle like this before, a no-holds-barred civil war between its own, established power-brokers and dangerous newcomers alike. No matter who won, if anyone did, the repercussions would be cataclysmic.

The _Bathsheba_ and the _Ranger_ circled each other like rival stags, the cliff side of the headland looming up behind them – one misjudgment by either Jennings or Vane, and they would both be dashed to pieces on the rocks. It was an oddly mesmerizing sight, beautiful in its brutality and betrayal, none of the other three ships able to intervene. Hook found himself briefly praying that the student would thus destroy the master, even if he very much wanted to have a hand (as a _hand_ was all that Jennings had left him with) in the mercenary captain's demise. But he was at the point where he didn't care if the local cobbler killed Jennings with an awl to the back of the head, so long as someone did. Not that Vane was much of a safer bedfellow, but still.

After a few minutes of gunfire so intense that the echoes were rolling crazily, overlapping and rebounding with the fresh volleys, the _Ranger_ swung just that bit too far to leeward as the wind stalled, her black sails luffing and her bow coming around directly into the maw of the _Bathsheba's_ forward battery. There was one thundering blast, then two, and the _Ranger_ staggered, pushed by main force inexorably toward the tangled mess of the _Jolie_ and _Whydah._ There was nothing they could do, no way for them to avoid it, as the brigantine spun stern-first into the pile-up, taking the _Whydah_ in the middle of the starboard sheer strake with a horrendous din of cracking and crunching. None of them were damaged badly enough to sink outright, but Hook could see at once that this was going to take weeks, if not months, to sort out – disentangle, repair, re-rig, and rebuild, and with the added complication that suitable shipbuilding timber was very rare in the Caribbean. A vessel that broke a mast oftentimes had to go all the way to the colonies for a suitable replacement, as there were no hardwood forests or lumber apart from palm trees and driftwood (or other captured ships). They were all going to be stuck on Nassau for the foreseeable future, fighting for the same scanty resources, with God knew how many enemies amassing on their doorstep. _Wonderful. Just bloody wonderful._

The one utterly grim consolation was that at least they could have been dead and they weren't, and that Jennings, despite having his enemies quite literally piled up on each other, could see that he had no chance of getting back into the harbor with the fireships and the _Walrus_ waiting for him, and that as Vane had turned against him, his foothold and controlling interest in the island had gone rather literally up in smoke. He had also lost the treasure stashed in the fort, as well as the _St. Marie_ and any hope for his own armada, which might cause even his men to reconsider their slavish devotion to him – £87,500 was, after all, quite a bit of shiny stuff to be cheated out of. His only hope was to rush to powerful friends and hope he had not yet burned all his bridges – whether Hamilton or Gold it was impossible to say with certainty, but far more likely the latter. Which was why it was even more imperative to mend the ships as fast as possible.

Even after Jennings was gone, it took at least an hour to chop the _Jolie,_ the _Whydah,_ and the _Ranger_ free. The former two had gotten the worst of it, and as Vane had helpfully torched all the smaller vessels that might have towed them into shallower water, they had to do it with their own launches and longboats, which was slow and backbreaking labor. The _Whydah_ was listing badly to starboard, since she had taken that second blow from the butt-end of the _Ranger_ (Sam remarked with gallows humor that he normally enjoyed an up-close view of a lady's backside much more than that) and emergency repairs had to be requisitioned. Meanwhile, while most of the mutineers had been killed when Hook and the Maroons retook the _Jolie,_ some of them were still alive, and that meant he had to figure out what in the bloody blue blazes to do with them. Their proper wage was death, as any sea captain had a right to administer to unsuccessful usurpation attempts. But they had seen Hawkins' body sprawled on the boards, he could further see the way they looked at him – with utter black loathing for the lieutenant who had commanded them for almost a decade – and he couldn't face the prospect of having to kill them all. There was plenty of room in the dungeons of the fort, and he ordered that they be marched there and shut in. If the Navy _was_ coming after them in full force and terror, it would be useful to have hostages to barter with. Them and the men from the _Jewel_ alike.

Regina observed these measures with a sour smile. She had ridden out the coup in the cabin, more ruffled than usual but otherwise undamaged, and said, "I told you no good could come of leaving them alive. If you'd just – "

"You said it wasn't wise to leave the _Jewel's_ crew alive. You had nothing to say on the subject of Navy sympathizers remaining in my own men, so you don't get to bloody pretend as if you saw this coming all along." Hook's face was almost completely black with soot and gunpowder and smoke, his voice nearly as much a rasp as Vane's. "Or did you just not deign to share that bit of miraculous prophecy with me? Remember, I said not to – "

"Killian!"

Both of them turned at the shout, as an equally filthy Emma burst out of the crowd and rushed to hug him, too relieved to see him alive to pretend at anything else. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, breathing in the scent of her, still just present beneath the rest of the battle reek. As he felt the soft bump of her belly against him, he was reminded of the fact that it was likewise his fault that little Jim Hawkins was going to grow up without a father. The Navy was a bloody dangerous job, and Hawkins could have been killed on any other posting, any other day or year, in any other place, by any other man. _But he wasn't. He died trying to save his crew from the villain Captain Hook. Will that comfort his boy, if they tell him that his father was a hero, even if he wasn't? Near ten years sailing together, and you wept not a single tear._

Too guilty to look her in the eye, he stepped back, even as Emma became aware of Regina's cold stare and tensed. She kept firm hold of Killian's arm as she nodded warily in greeting, which Regina did not return. She merely breathed through her nose like a dragon preparing to unleash flame, whirled, and strode away.

Emma glanced up at Killian with a troubled expression. "I – is she _staying_ here?"

"I don't know. She. . . she blames you for the death of the man she loved, I think. Captain Colter, of the _Valiant._ Apparently the idiot sailed into a massive storm and drowned while he was chasing you, and she's somehow come up with it being your fault. That was why she hired Liam and me to take you down in the first place, I think I told you that already. Destroyed the careers of a lot of captains Lord Robert Gold didn't care for, in the meantime. Those two bloody deserve each other, if you ask me, but she and my brother have developed a confounded mutual soft spot, so I can't do anything to her outright. If she tries it with you, though. . ."

"It won't be much different from what will happen to the rest of this place," Emma said, pessimistically but accurately. "You, me, Sam, Vane, and Flint are stuck here until our ships can be mended, winter's coming, so is the Navy, we don't know if Miranda's going to survive, the treasure is still shut up in the fort and nobody knows what Hornigold will do, and Jennings is probably on his way to Antigua right now to rejoin Gold and plan our ultimate and spectacular destruction. Aye, the battle of Nassau might be over. But the _siege_ of Nassau has only begun."

* * *

Liam Jones – he had obviously never considered himself Liam Junior, because he had never known until just days ago that there was an elder Liam to come second to – had, as the chaos began to spread across the island, as Jennings shouted for his men to leave the whores and the wine and get their arses down to the _Bathsheba_ now, been lying bleeding on the floor of the brothel, where Flint had shot him. The bullet had caught him in the meat of the right shoulder, barely missing the artery, and it felt as if he had a burning iron rod in place of an arm, unable to lift it, unable to struggle to his feet – he tried, but he kept tumbling back into the sawdust, like a wobbly newborn colt that hadn't yet learned how to walk. He couldn't, he _couldn't_.

Out of nowhere, he thought of his mother. Half a ghost to him now, a kind-eyed, brown-haired Frenchwoman, slight as a sparrow, who had died of smallpox when he was five. Le Havre, a port city, was constantly at peril of diseases being brought in from ships trading abroad, and it was only because Brennan had taken them strictly into quarantine that they had survived. He had always considered that it was the only thing they could have done – smallpox was lethally contagious, and it could level entire neighborhoods if it got its teeth in. But now, after everything, Liam (he heard it in his head like a mockery, _Junior)_ could not help but wonder bitterly if of course that was what Brennan had done. Left his wife to die without him, even as he had with all his sons, to save himself. _I never even got to say goodbye. One moment she was a bit poorly, the next the doctor made us go, and three days later we were putting her in the ground._

And yet, he reminded himself, it didn't matter. Liam was a fraud and Killian had killed their father, he was just as bad, he was worse. Liam Junior did not need any of those men and their failures. He had Captain Jennings, his hero and protector. He had meant to shoot his brother – guilt writhed in his stomach at the memory, he hadn't wanted to shoot the woman, why had she jumped in the way, _why –_ and then the retaliatory fire from Captain Flint, and he was here, he was wounded, he couldn't get up, and nobody was stopping to help him.

He clawed hold of the railing and dragged himself heavily to his feet, teetering toward the stairs, desperate not to be left behind, not one more time. Blood was running down his side and sticking his shirt to his skinny ribs, and he could feel the hole sucking when he moved his arm at all, followed by another lance of blinding pain. Tears oozed out of his eyes as he staggered into the taproom, where the last of the men were slinging on swords and pistols, spilling out the door. Jennings was cursing at them viciously, and then as Liam Junior reached him, whirled around. "Get fucking moving!"

"I – " He half-sat on the bench, only wanting to catch his breath. "Flint shot me."

"Any idiot could have expected that he would, yes." Jennings tied back his shaggy, sun-white hair, checked the edge of his cutlass with his thumb, licked away the spot of blood, and shoved it into its sheath. "Shouldn't have missed your brother."

"I tried, she – she jumped in the way, I – "

"Oh, quit your miserable mewling. Are you coming or not?"

"I. . ." He valiantly tried to get back to his feet, but the world was unbalanced, tilting like a slippery deck. "Please. Help me. I want to come with you, I'm still your man – you said you were teaching me everything. I want to captain the _St. Marie_ for you, I won't let you down, you know I won't. I showed you how loyal I am, I chose you, just as you asked. You saw it. I did."

Jennings smiled faintly. "Oh, aye. Good on you, lad. You've served well."

Liam Junior briefly glowed, basking in the warmth of praise, of all he had ever asked, of a home, a place to belong, a family to make proud. He held out his hand, hope flickering in his big blue eyes. "Let's go, then. Please."

"Ah." Jennings didn't take it. "The thing is, lad, you're already dead on your feet, and it's going to be dicey enough getting to the _Bathsheba._ I can't have you slowing me down, or inevitably telling them anything if they capture you, about my strategy, resources, plans, or inclinations. You would, you know, if the other choice was hanging. So. . ." Almost looking genuinely remorseful, he pulled out the gun at his belt, pointed it, and cocked the hammer. "Close your eyes and tell yourself a story, eh? One your mum knew. It'll be quick."

"What?" Liam Junior stared at him. "What are you talking about? I wouldn't tell them anything, I'm _loyal,_ I showed you – please, please don't. Captain Jennings, please, I want – "

"Don't." Jennings looked back at him with cool, flat eyes. "It's undignified."

"No. No, no." Liam Junior struggled to his feet, even as he reeled and almost fell. White static was starting to eat up his vision, and something occurred to him, until he couldn't bear it. "You didn't, did you? You didn't know my name until we met my brother. Liam. The older one. The real one. The one I was just a shadow of, and I never. . . I never knew, I – "

Jennings paused, then shrugged. "No. Why would I? You're not terribly special, I assure you. You, captaining a ship? Please. So, if that helps, take it to your grave. I'm sure someone will remember to bury you, or they can dump you in whatever midden heap they dumped your father. He's here too, you know. Together in death. See. I'm giving you exactly what you want."

"No." Liam Junior's feet were rooted to the ground. "No. Please don't. No."

"Sorry." Jennings smiled one more time. "You know, they're right. You made the wrong choice. They're the sort of people who would end up caring for you, putting you first, being worthy of your love and devotion and sacrifice. People like me, though, we. . ." He considered, scratched his unshaven chin, and leveled the gun. "We just find it pathetic."

And with that, he fired.


	28. XXVIII

**-XXVIII-**

The winter fog was soft and low and silver, the air pleasantly cool instead of its usual burning summer heat, the sea painted in palette-knife swirls of blue and grey and green where it lapped against the shore. The breeze had picked up enough to dispel some of the humidity, but not to clear the clouds, and the skeletal shapes of the ships at anchor looked ghostly, as if they had been called from the bottom of the ocean and commanded to sail by some more-than-mortal power. It was a fanciful thought, especially down at the docks, where the constant din of hammering, drinking, pissing, swearing, and sweating men destroyed any illusion of haunting or beautiful mystery. It had been six weeks since the battle, and as Nassau was more or less undefended until the ships were ready to sail again, partisan politics and power jockeying had been (somewhat) put aside. And it was now December, which bought them a little breathing room; no Royal Navy reinforcements would be sailing out from England at this time of year, having to wait for the spring. This, however, was a decidedly mixed blessing. Gold, if he had gotten the full story from Jennings, would not be rushing in with just a few vessels, hastily borrowed from whatever nearby posting he could get them. He would be taking his time to rebuild Antigua's destroyed garrison, requisition new and powerful warships that could actually sail and fight and capture, and finally move against them with a nigh-unstoppable force. In a way, it would have been better for their prospects if the invasion had already happened, rather than this murky, uneasy quiet.

Emma shifted her position on the dew-slick stones, not wanting to go back down quite yet. Flint had just returned from one of his scavenging forays last night, and she wasn't in the mood to handle him right now. As the _Walrus_ was the only operable ship, that meant it was his job to go out, acquire building materials and replacement parts by any means necessary, and bring them back to be parceled between the _Whydah,_ the _Jolie Rouge,_ and the _Ranger_ (which he avoided giving anything to if it could possibly be helped). Flint bitterly resented being made a glorified errand-boy, even if it was the most important role there was, and he was indiscriminate in his methods of seizing and ransacking passing ships. Sam, Emma, and Killian knew that their own vessels were being rebuilt on the back of open terror and no-holds-barred brigandry – which, while they might not have a choice, was still not something they were entirely comfortable with. Vane, of course, didn't give a shit, and he hated having to rely on Flint for the consistently smallest portion of the goods. The peace might be holding, but barely.

Emma rubbed two fingers between her eyes, trying to ease the ever-present headache. As much as Flint hated his job, she knew it was because he couldn't stand being here for long either, and he equally couldn't bear to be away. Miranda was still clinging onto life, but she hadn't woken up. They had managed to drip enough water into her, give her some honey, spoons of broth or bits of bread, that she hadn't yet shriveled completely into dust, but it was clear that they couldn't sustain her like this for much longer. Her flesh had withered to a wraith, the outlines of her skull visible beneath her skin, as she murmured or stirred sometimes but didn't surface, and watching her slip away in this slow, agonizing fashion was almost worse than if she had just died on the spot and had done with it. Instead, they kept having fits and starts of false hope that she might pull through this time, only for it not to be the case, and that was even worse. No wonder Flint was about to completely explode with rage and frustration and grief.

As such, Emma spent most of her time caring for Miranda, or managing the distribution of Flint's takings, or helping Sam smooth over flare-ups at the docks, or trying to keep Charlie and Henry happy and out of mischief, or all the other demands on her time, as well as being five months pregnant, constantly hungry and tired and out of sorts. It was for these and other reasons that she had, as a result, been avoiding Killian. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him, and indeed she saw him often, as he was likewise part of the makeshift governing council, and they had to collaborate on plenty of pressing decisions. But it had been easier to be vulnerable with him, to be open and honest, when it had been such a heightened, life-or-death crisis, and she knew that she might not get another chance. Now that there wasn't, at least not imminently, the prospect of moving forward made it _real,_ made it terrifying, made it overwhelming. If she could just. . . do it, but not yet, that would be best. She knew it was unfair, that she was the one who had asked him to try for a future, and now she was perpetually holding him at arm's length, but failing at this might break her, and she still needed her strength for everyone else. She couldn't afford to be selfish.

She shifted again as the baby moved, which it had taken to doing increasingly often these days. On the one hand, it was oddly nice to think that she was never truly alone, but on the other, it always tended to be whenever she was sitting or resting or trying to have a quiet moment. After the initial shock, Henry had come around to the idea of having a sibling, which was sweet; he seemed to have decided that he wanted it to be a sister, though he occasionally voted for a brother instead. As for Killian. . . Emma admittedly did not know, what with the above. The most they were together alone was when they were taking care of Miranda, and they were getting a sort of macabre practice at being parents out of it; Killian had to pick Miranda up so Emma could wash her and change her sheets, prevent her from getting bedsores or festering in filth, then feeding her and putting her back down. But if extra hands were needed, Emma had to ask Sam instead, and she knew it was goading Killian still further that he couldn't even do as much to help Miranda as he wanted, when it was his fault that she had been shot in the first place. It all felt as if it was hanging in the air, frozen, as if time had lurched to a halt and all they could do was wait toward an unknown end. Or simply –

"Swan?"

Her heart stuttered like a small bird in a cage as she glanced down to see Killian Jones himself, standing on the wallwalk below and gazing up at her. He looked as if he had also been out for a morning constitutional, hair windswept and cheeks roughened with color, shirt inadequately buttoned as usual despite the cool weather, and the sight of dark-furred chest made her heart briefly skip a beat. She pulled her knees up. "How did you know I was here?"

"Sam told me that you like to go here when you want a moment." Killian's mouth was grim. "We need to stop bloody doing this to him, you know."

Emma couldn't disagree. Since both of them were comfortable and safe with Sam, they had a tendency to tell him things and then rely on him to tell the other, rather than communicating directly. It was not fair to Sam to make him be the third-party intermediary and messenger and emotional support in their complicated, delicate – well, whatever this was – and while Sam loved them both and knew they were struggling, he was clearly also and quite understandably getting frustrated with the arrangement. No wonder he had flat-out told Killian where Emma liked to go, and probably ordered them not to return without sorting it the bloody hell out. Emma hesitated a moment longer, then said, "Do you want to come up?"

Killian climbed the narrow steps cut into the wall, up to her perch by the merlon that anchored the seaward watch. There was enough room for them to sit side by side, looking over the low verge down toward the harbor, which they did. Then he said, "You're avoiding me."

"I'm not, I just – with everything – with Miranda – "

"You don't think I feel just as responsible for her?" Killian looked at her levelly. "You know I do. But how am I supposed to know what you want me to do, what you want me to try, if you won't even let me get close enough to ask? This is the longest I've been with only you, with my child, for six bloody weeks, Emma, and it's only been a minute. I'm actually quite perceptive, I know what avoiding me looks like, and this, this is avoiding me."

"I – all right, I am avoiding you. I just. . ." She trailed off. "I'm sorry. I just haven't felt like it's the right time."

"Then when is? When spring comes and Gold launches his invasion and we all have to fight for our bloody lives one last time? Were you planning to talk to me before then?"

Emma winced. "I was. Killian, I do mean what I said to you, about us. I do. I know it's not fair of me to then turn around and shut you out. But – "

"You talk to Sam about what's going on," Killian pointed out. "Why him, and not me? Is it that you're sure he won't hurt you, but you still don't believe the same of me? What? Bloody tell me, Emma. I'm tired of guessing, and I've had plenty to manage on my own."

"I know." She reached out, putting her hand over his and squeezing, even as his fingers instinctively turned to catch hers, curling around her palm. "It's just. . . Sam is wonderful and kind and good, and I can't do without him, but. . . he's my friend, you see? Just my friend. What this could be with us, it's so much bigger and stronger and powerful and terrifying, and I. . . I don't know how to handle it. It's like the difference between a comfortable hearth fire and this out-of-control raging bonfire, and. . . I'm scared, all right? I'm scared."

Killian's expression softened as he looked at her. "Aye," he said gently. "I know. How do you think I bloody feel? But all of this. . . it's not going to suddenly go away, or not happen. It might terrify us both, but that doesn't change it, and we can't run away from it forever. We haven't even discussed names for the child, or if when it's born, it goes with the lads to Virginia to that Ingrid Arundel woman, or any of that. Those are things which will happen, love. And in this world, in this place, even if we ourselves don't survive, we need to be sure it's cared for."

"I know." Speaking it gave it a cold weight of certainty, the awareness that they themselves might not make it through whatever was coming next. It twisted Emma's heart in half to think of giving the baby up, of realizing that it might grow up without them, never knowing that its parents had been pirates, traitors to everything good and right and proper. Nassau was no place to raise an infant, not aboard the _Jolie Rouge_ or the _Whydah_ or whatever new ship Sam might steal for her, if any of it mattered with what was surely coming for them, coming for them all. She could go to Virginia with the baby, taking Charlie and Henry with her, but that meant yet more months or years apart, knowing Killian could be caught and hanged at any moment, and her own past could come back to haunt her, no matter how well she played the part of the sedate, matronly gentlewoman raising her young family in peace. The fragility of it, the clouded mirror, the way she couldn't see any way for all of them to be together and happy, made her chest ache.

After a moment, she picked up his hand and moved it to her burgeoning belly, looking at his face as he felt the swoops and flutters: the intent delight, the tender disbelief, the realization that it was more than just an abstract idea for which both of them felt massively unprepared, but something real, a living being, a future, a legacy. _Planting seeds in a garden you never get to see._ He didn't say anything, just lowered his head, planted a light kiss to the curve of it, and straightened up, eyes soft and faraway. Then he said, "What was your mother's name, Swan?"

"What? You want to name it for her?" Emma was startled. "If it's a girl, that is?"

"Aye, well, it's somewhere to start." He looked diffident. "Have a few suggestions."

"My. . . my mother's name was Snow. It's rather unusual, I know, but she was born in winter, and. . ." Emma looked down. "We could name it Samuel or Samantha, that was Sam's suggestion, but I think he was joking. He's done so much for us, though, it should have something to do with him. Or. . ." She didn't want to suggest naming it for Miranda, as that seemed to imply that she didn't think Miranda would make it, and they should do so in loving memory. "What was your mother's name, if we're asking?"

He hesitated a long moment, something odd in his eyes. Then he forced a smile and said, "Caitriona. My. . . father called her Cait. But I don't. . . I don't want to name my daughter something that he's associated with, casting his shadow, after. . . I loved my mother, but I don't know if I could stand it, when I already think I'd fail this one just like he did and – "

"It's all right. We don't have to." Emma took hold of his hand again. "We still have time to come up with something. It still could be a boy, you know."

"What do you think?" He looked at her. "Aren't mothers supposed to know?"

"Some things, yes. I'm not sure if it includes this. But I did always think Henry was going to be a boy, and he was. I had a feeling this one would be a girl, so. . ."

"We'll think of it as a lass, then. Until we know." He sat back, leaning against the stones, as a wind teased their hair and let a brief beam of sunlight escape through the drifting clouds. "Are you feeling all right, then? I'm told women in the family way often have odd hungers or desires. Is there anything I can get you?"

"I'm – I'm managing. I did have quite the sudden yearning for candied plums the other day, but those aren't really something you can find here right now." Emma shrugged. "So I just – "

"Candied plums? I'll hunt you up some, then."

"No, you don't have to, it's all right. I – "

He gave her a very stubborn look. "Swan, you're carrying my child. My _child._ And for whatever reasons, you've already made it bloody hard for me to do anything else for you. So if I can find you some candied plums, I am damn well going to do that. Anything else?"

Emma had to laugh. "Pepper," she admitted. "I've very much been wanting pepper. Though that's not considerably easier to get hold of."

"True." Pepper – and other spices – were a rare and expensive imported commodity to flavor bland English food, and a pinch of saffron was worth well more than its weight in gold. "I'll have a look through the takings Flint brought back. Said it was a rich trader arriving from Bermuda, loaded with wintertime goods for the colonies."

"It _was_ a rich trader?" Emma frowned. "Does Flint even remember that we need the _ships,_ not just whatever they happen to be carrying in their holds? If he destroyed this one, it'll be the second in three weeks. I realize there must be extra incentive in the fact that he's the only pirate captain able to take prizes right now, but he's not doing the rest of us any good if he doesn't bring the ships back at least somewhat intact."

"Flint doesn't have an interest in staying his hand right now." Killian looked at her, troubled. "He just wants to punish as much as he possibly can. Believe me, I bloody know."

"Aye, I suppose you. . . you do." Emma grimly supposed she'd have to talk to him later, but she could already foresee how that was going to go, especially if he had been to see Miranda and heard what Whale had told her: that Miranda could make it, at most, another few days like this before her body simply shut down. Either she woke up, or she died, and there was no further delaying it. That would be the last thing calculated to make Flint suddenly adopt a kinder and gentler approach to a world he already wanted to burn down. He wasn't going to listen to Emma, and certainly not Killian, though at least he would know that Killian understood. She supposed that they could try to get Sam to intercede, as he did have some kind of influence on Flint, but that could manifest in ways either good or bad. But if he was still destroying ships, when their collective survival rested on getting their own patched up again, it had to be something.

After a moment, she sighed and started to get to her feet, but Killian was up first, offering her a hand. Their grip lingered even after she was upright, and she could feel the dryness in her throat as she swallowed. Another apparent effect of advancing pregnancy was several nights of extremely vivid dreams, and he had featured in some of these in ways that made her wake up gasping, back arched, clutching the sheet, the lingering heat still coursing inside her. She was staying, at least mostly, at the lodging house with Miranda, but as it wasn't fair to Charlie and Henry to make them constantly dance attendance on a grim sickroom, they were living on the _Whydah_. At least she could be quite sure that Sam would not teach them anything too egregious, and that they'd be kept occupied – there was plenty of work to be done, they were healthy boys, they would assuredly not be sitting on their arses and waited on hand and foot. But she wasn't sure where Killian was staying. He didn't much enjoy being on the _Jolie_ for long periods of time after the mutiny, even if those responsible were still shut up in the fort, and he often had to be on the island anyway, whether for Miranda or for meetings with the others or breaking up fights. Wandering from inn to tavern, bed to bed, without any real place to settle. The thought was deeply sad.

They walked down toward the city together, toward the lodging house. Neither of them were especially eager to cross paths with Flint, but Emma supposed they should at least let Sam know that his insistence in getting them to talk to each other had finally paid off. She opened the door and stepped into the front hall, heading to the kitchen. "Sam? It's us, we – "

She was aware of the tension an instant too late, as they emerged into the room, all but smelled the whiff of brimstone, and skidded to a halt. Sam was sitting stiffly in one chair, Flint was a treed panther in the corner, and across the table from them, placidly drinking a cup of tea, was a bluff, hearty, well-set man with curled silver hair and beard, fashionable blue coat and sword on a sash, who looked like someone's favorite uncle. Captain Benjamin Hornigold.

"You," Emma blurted out, before she could stop herself. She hadn't seen him in quite a while, and couldn't think of any good reason to enjoy seeing him now. There was absolutely no way to guess what his motive could be – would revenge on Sam alone be enough to bring him here, or did he have some half-baked plan of offering them an alliance and turning against Vane? As long as Hornigold held the fort, his opinion or influence couldn't be disregarded, as they would need him to pull his weight on defending Nassau – but was that even what he had in mind? As had been well established, his enduring English sympathies had been what put him out of a job in the first place, and if ever one man leapt out at you as a potential Judas Iscariot, Hornigold fit the bill with flying colors. No wonder both Sam and Flint looked as if they were on the brink of explosion, if he'd strolled in here with Miranda dying upstairs and they were expected to receive him prettily and pour him a cup of Ceylon. "What the _hell_ are you doing here?"

"Miss Swan, a pleasure." Hornigold duly rose in the presence of a lady, eyes flicking to her belly. "I see congratulations are in order. But since as I understand, these are the men and of course, women I should address myself to, perhaps we should have a meeting? These are perilous times for us all, my old friends, and we must decide how to face them."

"Old friends?" Sam snorted. "I'm bloody well aware how you feel about me, Ben. We're also likewise aware that we're in trouble. You don't need to spoon this ridiculous pabulum over it."

"Not to mention." Flint pushed off the wall, eyes feral. "As far as I'm concerned, we _have_ been deciding how to face said perilous times, without any measurable contribution from you. Hand over the fort and a nice chunk of Vane's money with it, or we have no time for you and your yellow-bellied, two-faced palm-greasing. Make us a good fucking offer or get out."

Hornigold's expression clearly said that for the sake of the conversation, he would overlook the irony of Flint calling anyone else out for double dealings. "I assure you, I'm not here for the company either. Nor do I think anyone would consider it a wise move to infuriate Charles by brazenly robbing him and then having nowhere to run. Indeed, I am here to share a warning. Something I heard on the grapevine, if you will. The _Scarborough_ has been sent to capture the most notorious pirate lord in the Caribbean, and bring him to justice, one way or the other."

"Oh?" Flint grinned, or rather he bared his teeth. "Finally taken notice of my handiwork, have they? Bring Hume on, I'll shoot cannons up every orifice until he – "

"I'm sure your recent activities have been most. . . spectacular. I've certainly heard rumors to that effect. But in fact, it's not you."

Flint was thrown, and more than a little disappointed. "What? It's not? Who the fuck is it, then?"

"Why." Hornigold smiled thinly. "Black Sam Bellamy, of course."

There was a communal inhalation and an exchange of _what-the-hell_ glances, as this was clearly the least sensible thing Hornigold had said since walking in the door, and there had been plenty of those. Emma moved sharply forward to put her hands on Sam's shoulders. "And why, exactly, would they would think that? Who here has the most incentive to want revenge on Sam, and might be willing to approach the Navy to do it for him? Which then would leave us dependent on doing business with him, to pay or otherwise appease him for calling off the threat? I _wonder."_

Flint looked at her with something almost approaching pride, for half a second, as if laying eyes on the result of his protégé and successor. Then he was flashing back around on Hornigold, a lion leaping for the throat of a wounded antelope. "Funny, isn't it fucking just?"

"I can assure you, even I would not go hat in hand to the Navy expecting them to do my bidding." Hornigold bristled. "I used to be the leader of a feared pirate fleet, before – "

"Aye, we all know about your before," Flint snapped. "And it was a dismal failure, frankly. Care to offer us anything remotely fucking useful for the after?"

Hornigold opened his mouth, remembered that he was dealing with Flint at his most dark and brutal, and smiled uncomfortably instead. "As I was saying. Much as you may malign me, I had nothing to do with it. Apparently it was something Captain Hume decided on personally, when he heard that Bellamy had arrived in the Caribbean. Surely none of you have any idea why?"

Sam's shoulders went tense under Emma's hands, even as he turned a cold, closed-mouth grin on his former captain. "Not a one, no. He's an arsehole, does he need any other reason?"

"Well, as our compatriot pointed out – " Hornigold made a flourish at Flint – "it would make far more sense if they were after him. You _have_ been making quite an impression, so either they somehow haven't heard about you, or they have something even more special planned, and can safely send Hume on his little side venture after Bellamy. If that's the case, surely I needn't illuminate what the consequences would be. And after all this, James, my friend, I very much doubt that they haven't heard of you, or are turning a blind eye to your. . . accomplishments."

Flint looked as if he couldn't decide whether to bark at Hornigold's presumption in addressing him by his Christian name and calling him a friend, or to appreciate this assessment of his recent mayhem. It was rather a neat strategy to keep him quiet, which Emma had to admire, even as she very much wished that Hornigold would shut up and leave. Still, she knew all too well that he wouldn't, and this calculated paying out of information, fishing to see what they knew and if they could be induced to share it, and this subtle gauging of their sentiments and plans meant that they would be fools to let him do it, or think that they could afford to ignore him any longer. There was no way to know if Hornigold had been sitting on his hands, hoping for the power struggle to blow over, or if he had been stealthily waiting for the right time to play his collected cards. He wasn't a pure marauder and pillager like Vane, or a master manipulator and cold-blooded berserker like Flint, but he had never gotten over the shame of losing command of his pirate fleet to Bellamy, not when he considered himself the founding father of their ragtag republic, that every man who sailed beneath the black flag should thank him for blazing the way, and hold that ancestral gratitude in their hearts forevermore. And when that driving grudge was mixed with a continuing tendency to see England as a friend, and the fact that he still had a controlling interest in the fort and thus Vane's deposited treasure, the lifeblood of the island, he was just smart enough to be very, very dangerous.

"Speaking of Vane," Flint said, picking up on this thought. "What gilded lures have you been dangling in front of him – or should I say, he's been dangling in front of you – so you agree to serve as his watchdog on the fort? Likely just promising you as much treasure as you can stuff down your trousers, isn't he? So are you here offering to sell him out, or sell us down the river?"

"Any business arrangements I have made with Captain Vane are not germane to the current discussion, I assure you." Hornigold did that oily smile of his again. "I _can_ caution, however, that he feels slighted by your failure to include him in your maneuvering, especially after it was due to his personal intervention that Jennings was chased out of here with his tail between his legs. And we all know what Charles does when feeling slighted."

"We invited him to come if he was prepared to work as part of the council," Emma said levelly. "We made clear that we were grateful for his decision to fight with the _Ranger,_ which is likewise in need of repair. In which it would _help_ if Captain Flint would remember that he's supposed to be taking ships _intact,_ and sharing their resources equally. But Vane hasn't wanted to have any commerce or compromise with us, so there's not much incentive, frankly."

Killian looked at her admiringly, as he always seemed to most thoroughly enjoy her when she was calmly and fearlessly negotiating with these dangerous, unreliable, dishonest men, never backing down or tolerating any insinuation that she might be less than their equal in any way. It was strange, that belief, but also deeply comforting, the fact that he was so steadfast in it when she rarely had it for herself. It was true that after a few meetings tensed to the point of sky-high explosion, trying to make Vane and Flint sit in the same room and converse logically, while Miranda's life hung in the balance and both of them thought they should be king, they had abandoned any hope of some idealistic utopia. As with everything else, it was clearly an untenable long-term situation, but they were stringing this together totally in the dark. Smoke and mirrors were all they had.

"Well," Hornigold acknowledged. "Calm and reasoned debate is not Charles' forte, is it? All the more reason to consider me his. . . trusted go-between. If I can sit in the meetings as his representative, and then convey the proceedings back to him, he can still feel as if he has some influence on New Providence's governance, without the unpleasantness of trying to force him and Captain Flint into direct cooperation. You know you can't afford to leave him angry or dissatisfied." _Or me._ The last two words were unspoken, but clearly audible nonetheless.

Emma, Sam, Killian, and Flint exchanged a look. They didn't want Hornigold sitting and snooping on their plans, but they were also aware that it would be very finicky to simply turn him down cold. He was waiting with a slightly smug look that must have made their collective knuckles itch with the desire to punch it off, but finally it was Sam who offered the olive branch. "Very well. If you can prove that you and Vane have some kind of working relationship, and that's what you two actually want from us, you can play at being his elder statesman. But don't bloody think that we won't be watching you like a hawk."

Hornigold gave him a look that could not quite disguise his loathing, but at least succeeded in papering it over to well-mannered dislike. "How very magnanimous of you, Captain Bellamy. I do so hope you have no reason to regret your generosity. But then, you're just _so_ generous, aren't you? So _good._ It's a wonder any of us mere mortals dare to stand in your presence."

Killian cleared his throat like a cannon brigade. "I think I'm already regretting it for him."

"All right." Emma glared the boys apart, as Flint also looked set to jump in. "We. . . appreciate your willingness to ensure a harmonious coexistence, Captain Hornigold. And we, of course, have plenty to be getting on with ourselves, so surely we don't want to keep you?"

She hoped that this was both an obvious and a gentle enough ploy to ease Hornigold out of there, like pus from a wound, without further hurt feelings. He indeed looked briefly inclined to protest, but seemed to accept that he had gotten out of the meeting what he wanted, and he would put it at risk if he attempted to push for further gains on the spot. He doffed his feathered hat with ostentatious courtesy, bowed over Emma's hand, and slithered out.

The instant he was gone, Flint blew out a furious breath, slamming both fists on the table. "Aye, the last thing we need is a gilded traitor in a fancy coat sitting his fat arse at our councils and tripping back to feed it straight to Charles fucking Vane. Assuming that he doesn't just sell us straight to the Navy instead, which I likewise don't put past him in the least to do. Or is it that you somehow thought he'd be a useful companion and actual – "

"Mate." Killian smiled grimly. "I never thought we'd see the day when we had to point out the value of disinformation to _you?_ Aye, let Hornigold come to a few meetings. He feels included, maybe even that he's getting one over on us. We talk about whatever trivialities we can think of to pass the time, and then something that sounds important, something secret. He trots back to fence it to Vane, or the Navy, for a good price. They also make their plans accordingly. Too bloody bad for the lot of them if that doesn't turn out to be our actual strategy, eh?"

That caught Flint, for once, completely flat-footed. It was true that the nuances and deliberations of politics were something far outside his recent ken, what with his determination to just tear everything down, and for the first time, the look he turned on Killian was not completely disdainful. Then at last, he broke into a savage smile. "Bloody hell. You're learning after all."

"I've had plenty of time to think about how to play our enemies, yes. And we'll also have to put Hornigold off the scent, if he's expecting us to do this – but I don't think he is. He's smart, but not that smart. Doubtless you can attest as much, Sam?"

Sam looked up with a start. He clearly hadn't been listening, mind wandering somewhere else, as Emma glanced at him with concern. "Sam. Are you all right?"

"Fine, love. I just don't suppose it's the thing to warm the cockles of one's heart, knowing that Hume's wrangled an assignment to personally hunt me down." He shrugged. "I'd prefer that when he comes, our ships are able to sail and fire. To which, I'd once again remind our compatriot here that our collective survival depends on him taking useable prizes."

"Aye, I'll keep it in mind." Flint looked as if he wanted to bark, as usual, but there was something about Sam that, ever so slightly, softened his vitriol. Then he pushed back his chair, and stood up with a jerk. "I'm going to see Miranda. Whatever Whale has to bloody tell me, I want it from that rat bastard's own mouth."

The remaining three watched his retreating back with a sense of leaden dread. They knew that all their badgering of Flint to adopt a more restrained policy had gone in one ear and out the other, and to some extent, they couldn't blame him. But however difficult it had been to get through to him in the past six weeks, the end of this would make it even harder, and it was still the case that their survival rested on it. Asking Flint not to destroy, if his world, the last good thing he was clinging to, his only hope for a future, was destroyed too, was absolutely useless.

"Well," Killian said, after a long, foreboding moment. "It's clear we can't count on both our ships being mended, and we might have to choose which one gets what there is. The _Jolie_ is the stronger, the better armed, and. . . whoever's coming after us, we have a better chance to fight them if it's with her. Bloody hell, Sam, I don't ask this lightly, but if it's one or the other – "

"No." Sam looked at him flatly. "Hume's coming for me. Me, not you. And aye, the _Jolie_ might have more guns – as I noticed quite well when the mutineers were shooting at me with them – but given said recent command difficulties, that may not be a good thing. Even if all the mutineers _were_ weeded out, you're still running considerably short-handed, and the Maroons aren't sailors, as they've had no opportunity to practice. Besides. Don't ask me to sit here with that bastard on his way, and the _Whydah_ with no chance to go out and meet him. I wouldn't ask it of you if it was Gold. So in turn, know what it is for me."

Killian opened his mouth, then stopped, and they exchanged a glance that Emma didn't quite understand, something unspoken passing between them. No pirate captain relinquished his ship easily, in any sense of the word: it was their home, their entire lifeblood, their defense and their protection, and Emma still felt pangs of loss for her sunken _Blackbird._ Even if it was the kind of bitter compromise they might have to make in service of the greater good, neither Killian nor Sam would instinctively want to step aside and let the other's ship be mended first, if it meant their own would go lacking. Emma had already guessed that Sam had some sort of ugly personal history with Hume that was clearly in play here, and sensing their worried looks, Sam himself forced a smile. "Don't worry, I'm not about to barge out and do anything stupid. I won't provoke Hume into a fight or lure him here when we're not prepared to fend him off. But when you've lived your life not looking back at the past, it can be a bit disconcerting to find it still chasing you. And if there's a shot, it's mine to take."

"Sam – " Killian looked both admiring and frustrated. "You should let me. After Miranda – and if it does happen, you're the only man I'd trust with Emma and our – "

"Let me ask you something." Sam turned to stare at him coolly. "Why is it that every version of the future you can possibly see involves you not being in it? First when you tried to get shot back at the brothel, now when you want to martyr yourself taking down Hume, not to mention you've asked me at least twice now if I'd be willing to take care of Emma and the child when – _when,_ not _if –_ you inevitably die. Clearly, the only way you can fathom moving forward is if you reassure yourself that you'll die soon anyway, to pay for your mistakes. You can't accept that you're worthy of living, and since the rest of us don't agree with that assessment, it means that we have to put ourselves in danger to save you from yourself. What happened at the brothel with your brother – you didn't _have_ to take the bullet. You could have stepped aside. It wasn't a choice between you or Miranda or Emma. You don't have to stand there, facing that unworthy little prick with a gun, and think that he has the right to dispense judgment on you or your life or even your mistakes. Bloody hell, yes, of course I'll take care of Emma. But how about this? How about you bloody promise me that _you'll_ do it? And live?"

Killian opened and shut his mouth. "Sam," he managed at last. "Sam, I – "

"Aye, you'll remind us of something for which you think you can never be forgiven, and use it to justify why you're the only one of us who should face mortal danger, because you're the only one we wouldn't miss. Bullshit. Bull- _fucking-_ shit." Sam's cheeks flushed, dark eyes burning. "Both of you, you're too bloody stubborn, and I'm tired of sitting here and tending both sides because you won't say a word to each other, and you're both running away in your own ways. Emma because she's afraid to really live, and you because you still want to die. We don't have much time, and you're missing it. Missing each other. For no damn good reason at all. I've tried to get you to see it all this time, I've done my damndest to be patient, but, well, Hornigold's right. Aren't I so good, so generous, so beatific. Too much for my own good, or yours. I don't want to die, whenever I do, knowing that you two missed each other, and I didn't do something more, if I possibly could. So why don't you both just boil your bloody heads, or whatever else it's going to take to wake you the fuck up, and leave me out of it? Eh?"

Emma and Killian looked at each other, looked at him, and looked at each other again, dumbstruck. "We," Emma said at last. "We did talk. Earlier, I mean."

"Bully for you." Sam was not mollified. "You said a real word for the first time in six weeks, we'll see if the Earth can keep turning after such a momentous event. I'm done, just so you know. Done playing your go-between and translator and handler and safe place to run. I love you both, you know that, which is why I'm doing this. From now on, you have something to say to each other, you talk to each other. Not me. I'm your friend, and I'll never leave you, but I'm not letting you stay in this sleepwalking comedy of ignorance. Not for you. Not for any of us."

With that, he got to his feet, knocking the table, and slung on his jacket, as well his sash and sword. Then he spun on his heel, and went.

* * *

It was not a good evening. Whale had quietly told them all that it was, barring no further change, time to say their goodbyes to Miranda, which would have been awful and heart-wrenching even if that was the only thing they had to face, but with everything else, made it utterly unbearable. It was impossible to banish the thought that she had only hung on long enough for Flint to return, so they could have a proper farewell, and with that having been accomplished, she was fading faster than a snowflake on the tongue. Sam had returned after his afternoon away, but still wasn't in a conversational mood, and the three of them went upstairs knowing that Flint would gladly strangle all of them the instant they crossed the threshold. Miranda looked still, shrunken, pale and waxy as a wraith, the blanket barely stirred by her shallow breathing, as he bent over her, agonized, trying to hold life in her broken body with his bare hands. The ring Sam had given them was still on her finger, almost circling bare bone, glinting like the mockery of a promise. Flint didn't look up, as if certain they had only come to blame him for not doing enough, for not taking the ships properly, for everything else. For not being selfless, when the last time he had done this, had believed it, it had led him to this.

Emma kissed Miranda's forehead, voice wavering, as she tried to think of the right things to say, how much she would give anything for Miranda to be able to meet her foster grandchild, unable to explain how much and how many times Miranda had saved them both. Sam told her softly that she was a brave, brave lady, and he hoped she slept well, now, at the end. Killian couldn't muster up a word. Just sat, head bowed, like the rest of them, simply waiting.

The world seemed to slow, stretch out, wanting it to be over and dreading when it was, for surely nothing could be the same again. Everything would unravel. Miranda was Flint's last and deepest real tie to Emma; he had of course served as her teacher in the ways of this world, but that had never been enough to command respect or affection or unforced alliance on its own. Once she was gone, he might have no compunctions at all about lighting out as a free agent, leaving them and the rest of Nassau to their fate, and returning only to pick up the pieces from the ash. He certainly would have less than no interest in a renewed partnership with Killian, whom he bitterly blamed for what had happened to her, and he might likewise run from any closer camaraderie with Sam, considering it his own fault for being weak. All of it was fading. All.

Miranda's chest fluttered, and hitched. Stilled. Pale and magnificent and motionless as if she was lying in state in some great cathedral somewhere, an effigy of a queen in marble. An unfathomable silence hung over the room, all of them listening for the wingbeats of the Angel of Death, for him to wrap her against him like a child and spirit her gently away. Emma kept holding onto Miranda's hand, tears rolling silently down her cheeks, as Killian held Emma's other hand, hard and quiet and strong. Now, it was now. It was happening now, and she couldn't do anything but watch it go, watch her go, until –

And then, impossibly, Miranda's chest fluttered a second time. Even as all of them were fixated on her, not believing their eyes, not daring to turn to the others and ask if they had seen it as well, sure that it had been a momentary lapse, a final sigh, it came a third time. Then, after a slightly shorter interval, a fourth, until it became clear that she had somehow begun to breathe again. Until Emma could just feel the faintest thread of a pulse in Miranda's wrist, and looking across at Flint, who had hold of Miranda's other hand, could see that he sensed it too. They locked eyes, barely breathing either, for once utterly united in their aims with no hint of discord or animosity whatsoever, struggling just as hard to make it keep going, as if it was possibly within their earthly power to affect. But they didn't say a word, even as the thrall grew deeper and stronger and greater. Until at last, Miranda's eyes moved beneath closed lids, sunken deeply in the fine-boned orbits of her face like distant stars in the immensity of space. Until they too fluttered, showed a crack of gentle brown, and after the longest pause in the history of the world, opened.

Flint and Emma let out identical sobbing breaths, bending over her, clutching onto her and desperate not to jostle or hurt her any more, both of them half-convinced this was a trick that sometimes happened to corpses after death. But Miranda's eyes moved between them, and the faintest of smiles upturned her colorless lips. "Well," she whispered. "It must have taken quite something to get you two on the same side of things at last, now mustn't it?"

Flint made an impossible sound, all but collapsing, hand still tangled with hers, tears on his cheeks as he kept making that sound, which Emma could not possibly recognize or understand, until she realized that he was laughing. Not laughing in the way he usually did, bitter or mocking or angry, but actually _laughing_ , in a way he must not have for at least ten years. James McGraw, not Captain Flint, simply staggered with delight, terrified to question this good fortune lest it be taken from him, as he finally leaned down and kissed her lightly, unable to keep the wondering grin off his face. "Welcome back."

"How long have I. . .?" Miranda was almost too weak to turn her head, but her eyes roamed the room, taking in their flabbergasted expressions. "Where am I?"

It took quite a lot of stumbling explanations, all of them interrupting and talking over each other, as they acquainted her with the dramatic developments of the last six weeks. Then Emma ran downstairs to get some good strong broth, spooning it into Miranda as Flint held her up, looking as if he wasn't planning to let go again for a good long while. They had to take it slowly, as Miranda hadn't eaten properly in all this time, but she managed to keep it down. She wanted to hear about the repairs to the ships, their plans to fight Jennings, their newfound and untrustworthy alliance with Hornigold, as if she hadn't been at death's door for over a month, so that they actually had to keep up with her on her questions. She was even able to suss out that Sam had particular reasons for wanting to go after Hume, which made her look at him shrewdly and frown. "But the _Whydah_ was damaged, you said? Along with the _Jolie,_ and the _Ranger?"_

"Aye, we've been trying to mend her, but – " Sam glanced pointedly at Flint – "there have been some difficulties in acquiring ships sufficiently still intact to raid for parts. Perhaps you'll be able to have a voice of reason on this, my dear? When you're feeling more the thing, of course."

Miranda smiled affectionately at him, reaching up an emaciated hand to touch his face. "I'm sure there's quite a bit to sort out, in due time. Are you all right?"

"Aye," Sam said again, blinking. "I think you're the one who needs fussing over."

"You've already fussed over me quite enough," Miranda said briskly. "And I owe all of you my life, but it won't be worth much unless we stand against whatever and whoever may be coming for us. Perhaps this can be some sort of rallying cry, if I'm not too presumptuous as to say so. A chance for us to pull together, not in bits and parts and constant backtracks, but to face it, as one. That may be the greatest miracle of all."

Flint, still holding her hand, lifted it quietly to kiss it, as Emma felt her heart ache with the sheer, disbelieving delight. She bent down to kiss Miranda's gaunt cheek as well, then glanced shyly at Killian, beckoning him with her head. He paused, then got up, made polite goodnights, and followed her upstairs, toward the dimness of the attic bedroom where she had been sleeping. It wasn't much, just a spindly chair and a low cot with a roughspun blanket, and he had to duck under the lintel, shutting the door behind him and looking around with an aghast expression. "You're living _here?_ Christ, no, this is terrible."

"It's – not as bad as it looks." Emma smiled wanly. "Well, not quite. At least I've been close to her. And now. . ." She hesitated. "Miranda woke up, Killian. She woke up. She's probably going to live. I don't know how either, I don't know why, but perhaps. . ."

"Perhaps I'm not utterly cursed after all?" Killian managed a smile in return. "Sam did give it to both of us quite raw earlier, eh? Can't deny that we deserved it. I suppose I – I have been running, as much as you. He's right, as always. Of course he's bloody right. I keep thinking that the only way I can countenance going forward is if I have an escape hatch, if surely my misdeeds will catch up with me and put me out of my misery, and I. . . I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Emma said quietly, looking at her hands. "I know."

"After. . ." Killian hesitated, then moved to sit next to her on the bed. "What happened at the brothel with Jennings and my. . . my half-brother. I tried to find out, a few days later, what happened to him. If he left on the _Bathsheba,_ or. . ." He trailed off. "Well. It took quite a lot of asking, but I finally found a local gravedigger who told me that he had taken a boy matching that description from that brothel, and put him in a pauper's grave with the other unclaimed bodies. Said that the lad had been shot once in the head, point-blank, quite cleanly. He didn't know who had done it, but I did. Jennings killed him. After he made the choice for that sick bastard over us, he ended up paying for it with his life nonetheless."

"Killian, I. . ." Emma looked at him, at a loss for words. "Killian, I'm so sorry."

He didn't answer for a long moment. "I don't bloody know what to think," he said at last. "Liam Junior was a dangerous and reckless fool, but he _was_ my half-brother, he was right about what I did to our father, and more than that, he. . . he was me. So utterly me, what I could have been without Liam, without any real hope, without anybody but Jennings to turn to. I didn't tell you, or Sam, or anyone. I just thought it was one more cross I would have to bear, one more death on my conscience with all the others. But I. . . is it remotely all right if I. . . if I don't see his death as my fault? Everything else that passed between us, that he accused me of, I did it, and I have no means or desire to deny. I know who I am and what's become of me. But Jennings was the one who killed my brother. Not me. I tried as hard as I bloody could to reach him. I couldn't, aye, but. . . there was nothing else I could have done, more than I did. Am I an utter arrogant fool for thinking so? Because if it was my fault after all, I'm more than willing to accept the blame."

"No." Emma's throat felt thick. "No, it's not. And I'm sorry too, for running away so much that you didn't have a chance to tell me. I didn't – "

"No, Swan." He reached for her hand again. "If you're not going to let me apologize to you, then God knows I'm not going to let you apologize to me. Neither of us have had a strict _obligation_ to talk to each other, but both of us know it's not how we want it to be. What Sam said, about not missing it, about not missing us. . ."

They looked at each other for a moment longer, eyes locked, waiting. Then at once, so that they nearly knocked noses, they leaned in, falling, hands coming up to catch and cradle each other's heads, mouths opening, kissing passionately, deeply, hungrily, almost devouring each other. They shifted position on the bed as she swung a leg over him, straddling him as he went down onto his back. Both of them were only in comparatively thin shirts, cool air and arousal alike stiffening her nipples to a peak as he moved his hand to cup the rich fullness of her breast, swearing under his breath at having only one with which to touch her. His fingers trailed over the swelling slope of her belly, then lower, teasing at her, as she sucked in a breath and hitched herself hard against him, desperate for friction. She reached down, spanning his chest with both hands, testing and teasing, as she ground again, feeling the hardness of him between her thighs. Some part of her had almost feared that when they came to this place again, if they ever did, the spark would be gone. That it truly had been a one (or two)-time thing, some strange byproduct of their proximity and their vulnerability and their need, bringing them together just long enough to start this child, and then sending them on again, spinning out of each other's orbits for good. But it wasn't. It was even more. It was raw, galvanic, unspeakable.

They undressed almost quickly enough to tear their clothes, fumbling and gasping and giggling at how very undignified it was, how they kept bumping teeth and grabbing at the other and hauling them closer, knocking and sliding and slipping, how nothing quite fit and yet everything did. Emma clawed at his hip as he finally entered her, breathless and panting against her neck, feeling his smile pressed into the corner of her collarbone, his heat and heaviness inside her. God, it was good, it was good, it was _good,_ it was being whole again, it was breathing. She was making that sound like Flint's, that one she barely recognized. She was laughing.

She shifted again to kiss Killian as their pace intensified, as he filled and formed her with every stroke, mouth worshiping at her throat, her breasts, her shoulder and her jaw and her ear, the cleft of her chin, the soft spot behind her ear. His breath was a soft rhythmic grunt in his throat, almost mesmeric, entranced. A goodness, a union that both of them had dreamed about since the day they left each other, and yet never believed or hoped or even dared to fear they would ever get back to. All of his cracks and fissures laid bare, and all of hers, and the way they poured themselves into the other's, like golden oil, like warm honey. And so it was, on that strange but wonderful December night, in the last of the Year of our Lord seventeen hundred and fifteen, after all that had been, despite all that yet might be, Emma Swan briefly believed in magic.

* * *

The next few days were a bustle of activity. Sam looked at them and winked when they came downstairs very late the next morning, and they both went to give him a hug, in Emma's case, and a cuff on the shoulder, in Killian's case, which was followed by Sam rolling his eyes, saying, "Oh, come here, you idiot," and hauling him in for a proper hug and a kiss on the cheek. Killian coughed and shuffled and scratched his ear up a storm, but looked very pleased, and the overall mood in the house was far more sprightly as well. Flint had actually turned up for breakfast _whistling,_ of all the terrifying things. Nor could he even look grumpy, for too long, when Sam pointed out the uncanniness of such an event. He huffed, but was grinning again by the time he started to eat. Emma had to glance outside for pigs soaring past the treetops.

Still, they could not rest on their laurels for too long. Flint set sail again the next day, and Emma considered the odd prospect, since it was less than a fortnight away, of spending Christmas with her family. Charlie, Henry, Miranda, Sam, Will, Killian – even Flint himself, if he made it back in time, as well as Billy. Among all the chaos and danger and uncertainty, the idea shone like a small and glittering jewel, something else she didn't want to miss simply for being afraid. Killian, however, was pessimistically convinced that Hornigold and Vane, being the heathens that they were, would elect the holiday as a choice moment to launch their nefarious scheme, as the entire island would be drunk on celebratory rum and port and other choice libations and thus unable to offer meaningful resistance. Pirates might not give an arse about religious observations or tender sensibilities (especially not Sam, who had very strong opinions on the hypocritical behavior of "those pimps of parsons" who preached celibacy and guilt and poverty and suffering to the masses, while lining their pockets from the collection plate and diddling fanciable young women in the vicarage) but they did love a good party.

Rather fittingly, Flint returned on Christmas Eve bearing gifts: a two-masted, fifteen-gun Dutch sloop that could be extensively cannibalized for timbers and parts for the _Whydah._ (The Dutch sailors themselves were confused and truculent, as might be expected for having been abruptly stranded in the middle of pirate headquarters, but while some of them desperately sought passage back to civilization, more than a few decided to take full advantage of the situation, and signed onto the _Walrus_ and the _Jolie's_ short-handed crews.) "Well?" he remarked, at supper that evening. "Do I get a pat on the head for doing a good job?"

"It's a solid start," Emma said patiently. "If you can get just one or two more, we should be doing very well. Thank you."

Flint harrumphed, but looked rather pleased with himself nonetheless. His eyes flickered to Miranda, who was heavily propped up with pillows in her chair, but had refused to stay in bed all day an instant longer. "How long has it been? Since we enjoyed this properly?"

"Oh, I can't even remember." Miranda smiled softly as she reached for her glass of brandy. "I don't think you've smiled as much, in all these years, as you have in the last fortnight."

Flint coughed. "I trust you won't tell anyone."

"Why?" Miranda asked. "I understand you have a terrifying front to keep up, James, but why should no one ever be allowed to know that you're happy? You've driven your men, and yourself, under the goad of rage and hatred and lies for so long. Do you think you'd lose your edge, your fury against the world, your drive to avenge Thomas, if you ever stopped to enjoy it for just a moment? Has it ever occurred to you that you might be fighting just for the sake of fighting? What you said to me before all this went down – do you still mean it?"

"Aye. Of – of course." Flint looked down at his plate. "But we're not done fighting yet, Miranda. There's still too much at stake. I can't take the risk of losing anything that drives me."

"I doubt you'll ever have that difficulty, my dear." Miranda looked both wry and sad. "And it saddens me more than I can say, that you think you must forever mask up and hide away the best of you. I've seen James McGraw again these days, after long last, and I wish I could see more. I love Captain Flint as well, you know I do. But perhaps the world will keep turning if you let him go now and again."

"I can't take that risk." Flint cut his potato, sopping it in the gravy from his meat. "Not yet. Soon, perhaps. But not yet."

Miranda did not look entirely convinced, but ceded gracefully. It was a full table, as Charlie and Henry had been brought up from the _Whydah_ to stay at the lodging house, and Henry was excited, as any lad would be, for Christmas the next morning, to the point where Emma had to shoo him upstairs and make him go to sleep. The adults stayed up late, sitting by the fireside and talking, until they heard the distant sound of midnight bells, pealing from the parish church. It was a crisp, clear, perfect night, the winter stars brilliant in the dark sky, and Emma felt a rush of emotion that simply had no words. Turning to the others, she said only, quietly, "Thank you."

The next morning was, in fact, quite joyous. Henry woke them up early, small gifts and candies and sweetmeats were exchanged, and Emma sat regarding the astonishing spectacle of Sam actually convincing Flint to wear a paper crown from of one of the twists of treats that Father Christmas (probably also Sam) had happened to scatter by in the night. Killian ceremoniously presented her with a box of candied plums still in the striped wrapping of a fancy London confectioner's house, as well as a sachet of pepper, which made her stare at him in astonishment. He only shrugged and grinned. "Told you I'd find them, Swan."

Emma sputtered, grinned back, and kissed him soundly, as Sam went to boil up a pot of coffee, which had been a favored drink of the English gentry for almost sixty years now, and was much more easily available in the Caribbean than tea. Miranda sat with a quilt on her lap, looking at the scene with such pride that it was nearly tangible. The Yule log, or rather a nicely sized chunk of driftwood, was crackling in the hearth, and the day was pale and warm and clear, sunlight striping the worn boards. Emma did not think she had ever been so happy in her life.

They drank coffee, ate sugared buns, opened more of the twists, and made plans to see that their respective crews got a large and delicious dinner, wherever they were lodged across the city or on their half-rebuilt ships. Various gangs of revelers were stumbling by in the streets, loudly singing absolutely dismal carols and insisting on being paid before they left, and Flint bellowed at a particularly stubborn (and tone-deaf) lot to clear out before he fetched his pistol, as Emma smiled to herself at the paradoxes and delights of a pirate Christmas. There would be goose and pudding and other traditional delicacies later, as England had vociferously welcomed back the holiday and all its trappings after Oliver Cromwell and his gang of killjoys had banned it during the decade of the Commonwealth, considering it too Papist for their sternly Puritan tastes. Even if everybody here would gladly kick England's head up its arse at the first chance they got, none of them could argue with this particular decision.

They were, in fact, just preparing to sit down for supper when the knock came on the front door. Emma expected it to be Will, as she had invited him over, along with Jack and Anne if they felt like it and wouldn't get their heads bitten off by Vane for dining with the enemy, and she went to answer it, unable to resist a bit of a swish in her red dress – it was the one time of the year that she changed out of her pirate breeches and jacket and shirt, though it had had to be let out considerably around the waist. She pulled open the door, still smiling. "Aye? You're just in time, we'll be eating in a few minutes, it smells delicious, I'm sure you'll – "

"Aye, I'm sure I will." Benjamin Hornigold grinned back at her. "A most happy Christmas to you, Mistress Swan. I should love to join you for the evening, and, as it is the season for greeting unexpected guests with warmth and charity, doubtless you have an extra place for my companion? Please allow me to present – with the greatest of honor – Captain Josiah Hume."


	29. XXIX

**-XXIX-**

"Get," Emma said, unable to form much more of a coherent response, but feeling that word at least punched out of her as if by a blow. "Get out of here."

"We would, but. . ." Hornigold shrugged, smirk widening. "Christmas Day is such a convenient time to make new political plans, isn't it? Everyone's drunk on cheap brandy and asleep in some filthy harlot's den. Nobody's up and about or inclined to do anything, and with my friend here, well, all he had to do was approach on the backside of the island, drop anchor, and do as he would. I took the liberty of handing all the Navy men clapped up in the fort over to him, as proof of my sincerity, and oh, we also have Miss Guthrie. Captain Hume, if you'd be so kind?"

"Good afternoon, madam." Josiah Hume was a tall, well-fleshed man with plump lips and cold eyes, an immaculately curled and powdered white wig and crisp blue captain's jacket, saber swinging at his side. "I do apologize for the incivility of our behavior, but then, the pirates haven't really left His Majesty's Government a great deal of choice. Now have they?"

"You – both of you – " Emma's mind was racing. If it was true that Hornigold had emptied the dungeons and handed over both the _Jewel's_ men and the mutineers from the _Imperator_ , as well as whatever garrison of flatly sober and grimly-minded Navy soldiers Hume himself had brought to shoot boozy pirates like fish in a barrel, this was a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions. She couldn't let them inside – it was Christmas, nobody had any weapons on them, not even Flint, and the last thing she wanted was to let Hume lay eyes on Sam. But if she sent them away, that was as good as twisting the noose and giving them more time to concoct and hammer out the fine details of their nefarious collaboration. "You. Of course it was you, _Captain Hornigold._ You let it slip to the Navy that Bellamy was here on Nassau, and promised your immediate friendship and alliance if they sent the _Scarborough_ at once. You son of a _bitch."_

Hornigold looked unruffled by her accusations; they did not even merit so much as a shrug. "Bellamy betrayed me. Perhaps he gets his own taste of that same bitter draught."

"Ah, so he _is_ here?" Hume grinned, exposing one rakish incisor that gave him a downright cannibalistic look. "I've been waiting to cross paths with Samuel again for a while."

"I bet you have, you sick bastard." Emma couldn't resist a desperate, furtive glance over her shoulder; everyone was still happily occupied in the kitchen, but they would come to see what was taking so long if she didn't return in a few more minutes. "What – about Eleanor, what the hell have you done to her? Just march in and – "

"Miss Guthrie is running the business arm of the illegal operation here on Nassau," Hume pointed out, with that smooth, self-satisfied timbre in his voice that made Emma want sorely to slap him, or worse. "She faces transportation back to England and appropriate judgment for her crimes – as do you, madam, and the rest of your reprehensible associates. I daresay you yourself have planned for that eventuality – " his eyes flicked to her stomach – "but don't worry. I'll ensure you get a conviction as soon as the whelp is dealt with. Unless you want to be sweet, and induce me to change my mind? A workhouse isn't a pleasant fate, but it _is_ preferable to death."

Emma opened and shut her mouth, still drawing a blank on what she could possibly do, short of trying to kill them both with her bare hands on the spot, which wasn't going to go well. Evidently sensing her murderous inclinations, Hornigold said pleasantly, "Oh, if we don't return within a certain time, we've ordered Hume's men to fire the island. Can we come in?"

"Where you can go is directly to hell, you backstabbing, treasonous sack of – "

"Emma?"

She spun around, not knowing who had spoken in the hallway behind her, knowing that any option would be bad – and realizing in an instant that it was the worst of all. Sam, wearing one of the paper crowns and holding a glass of claret, at ease, relaxed, smiling, looking for her – only to lay eyes on the two men standing in the doorway, and for an iron wall to slam down. She had never seen that look in his eye before, the way they went absolutely pitch-black and his face snow white, his spine snapping straight as he fumbled for the sword he wasn't wearing. _"You."_

"Happy Christmas, Samuel." Hume was clearly enjoying every moment of this. "No fond greeting for your old friend?"

For once, Sam was completely at a loss for words. He barely even seemed to be breathing, until his hand clenched sharply, there was a tinkle of breaking glass, and the claret splashed red as blood over his sleeve and onto the floor. He flung down the ruined stem, breathing hard through his nose; it was clearly taking every single inch of his self-control, all his kindness, all his strength, everything he had deliberately and purposefully built in celebration of his freedom, of being away from this man, to stop him from doing something suicidal on the instant. Hornigold and Hume very much _were_ armed, and both of them had drawn their guns, Hornigold's a heavy blunderbuss and Hume's the usual standard-issue flintlock pistol of a Navy captain, training them dead on him and daring him to make one wrong move. "Emma," Sam said at last, his voice a low croak. "Get behind me."

"No, I – " Of course he would still be worrying that she might get caught in the crossfire, even when he was face to face with his most malfeasant demon. She planted her feet. "If _either_ of you think you're getting him, you're going through me."

"Oh, I'd enjoy that." Hume leered. "But if you insist, we'll make a – "

"What the fuck is going on out here?"

As if the situation was not bad enough, it then featured the emergence of Flint, who had apparently heard enough raised voices and ominous exchanges to work out that whoever was at the door was decidedly not there to wish them Gentle Christmastide and beg for pennies for a bad song. Likewise, at the sight of the world's worst Christmas guests since King Herod and his baby-slaughtering brigade, Flint went stiff, then exploded. "The _fuck_ are you do. . .? Fuck, you stupid fat fuck, I told them we were fools to listen to you for a single fucking. . .! Fucking _hell!"_

"Language." Hornigold looked sleek. "Surely not on Christmas?"

"I will fucking murder you on fucking Christmas, you traitorous stinking sack of shit, so my language is about the least of your _fucking_ worries." Flint stalked forward, even as both guns clunked and pointed at him instead. They really could not afford to get another of their coterie shot, especially not him, and Emma grabbed his arm. He stopped with a jerk, but barely, a lion slavering to be let off the chain, as he put out his other arm to gesture Sam behind him. "You're idiots, coming to the island like this, to this house. I'll kill you both, you malignant pustules."

"Oh, you do that, if you're so insistent on it," Hornigold said breezily. "See how that works out for you, my old _friend._ As I was just informing Miss Swan here, we have rather extensive insurance plans in place against that eventuality. The fort is under Navy control, and we have all the prisoners you were keeping penned up. Miss Guthrie is aboard the _Scarborough_ already, under sentence of transportation and execution in London. I'm sure there is a set of shackles waiting for you alongside her, if you insist on being intransigent – but for this time only, it doesn't need to be messy. The bargain is simple. Hand over Sam Bellamy, and the rest of you get to go free, at least until Lord Robert Gold gets his plans sorted out. You see, we're not really biting off more than we can chew. Just one of you at a time."

"Blow it out your arse."

"Come now, James." If Hornigold got any sleeker, there would be a pool of oil on the floor beneath his boots. "When have you ever had any trouble selling out friends and allies, even dear ones, to save your own neck? You have no reason to shield Bellamy just out of spite for me. It's not a smart move. You'll need that extra time to prepare for the invasion."

"Oh, no." Hume smiled. "I see what's going on. Samuel, you've told them some version of the story where you're a misunderstood saintly child who bears no blame at all, haven't you? Probably painted me as the worst monster to ever walk the face of the earth. Well, then." He glanced at Emma and Flint with a faint smile. "Ask him what really happened. See if he tells you the truth. He won't, because he knows he's in the wrong, and it would destroy this lie he's trying to peddle to you. Believe me, you don't know him at all."

In the split second of silence that followed, Hume was about to say something else, before Flint grabbed the muzzle of his pistol, wrenched his arm up as it went off with a bang, hauled off, and punched him so hard in the face that there was an audible crack of bone. He shoved him backwards into Hornigold, making both of them stumble, and then whirled around, grabbed Emma and Sam, and dragged them backwards into the kitchen, slamming the door behind them and lunging for the table, which was heavily laden with Christmas dinner. "Block it!" he snarled. "Block it now!"

"What in God's name is – " Miranda stared at them in shock. "Who is – "

"We need to get out of here. Everyone! Do as I say!" Flint hauled the table toward the door with an ungodly bumping and scraping, food spilling and dishes breaking, until Sam snapped out of his reverie and helped him wedge it firmly into place. Then they both ducked, not an instant too soon, as Hornigold's blunderbuss slammed a heavy slug through the wood that exploded the wineglasses on the sideboard. Killian had his arms out, shielding a goggle-eyed Charlie and Henry, who – like everyone else – had not expected their joyous holiday supper to degenerate into total murderous chaos on the instant. Flint ran back, lifted Miranda out of her chair, and kicked open the back door, which led into an alley. The seven of them tumbled out, Flint slammed it shut again behind them, and grabbed a broken plank to wedge through the latch, but it clearly would not hold for long. Or if Hornigold and Hume figured out their stratagem, went out the front, and looped back around, they could catch them all dead to rights. They had to find somewhere to hide, immediately.

They ran almost bent double between the crooked, low-hanging berms of the crowded houses, terribly aware that if they were apprehended, they didn't have so much as a pocket knife among them, and even the most determined efforts of Flint, Killian, and Sam might not be able to protect two boys, an expectant mother, and a still-convalescing woman with their bare hands (and hook). Besides, it was clear from the look on Sam's face that he wasn't there. Whatever it had been, whatever seeing Hume again had done to him. . . Emma thought back to her first conversation with Sam, just after he had taken her aboard the _Whydah,_ and what he had said, in such a careful, casual way, about his reasons for abandoning his old life. _The English Navy hanged – still does, you know – anyone found preferring the company of a man, despite the fact that half their officers must have forcibly buggered the recruits. It was one of the reasons I decided it prudent to leave. I enjoy women greatly, but I also enjoy what they enjoy about men, and that, well, that would have gotten me killed._ And if he hadn't been speaking in the hypothetical about officers who forcibly buggered recruits, and if that was what would have gotten him killed. . .

At that, Emma almost felt sick, but at the thought that Flint had only managed to break Hume's jaw (or at least so she hoped) rather than killing him on the spot. There was no chance of saying anything to either of them just now, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Killian knew, that this was what that odd, unspoken dynamic had been when Sam asked him to step aside, that the shot at Hume was his to take. Yet none of it would matter if they didn't come up with something immediately, and none of their options included another major sea battle such as their last one against Jennings. The _Whydah_ and the _Jolie_ were just about repaired, but not entirely, and any good hit would unravel all their weeks of painstaking, scraping, intensive labor – as well, their crews were scattered, celebrating the holiday and probably too drunk to stand up. Besides, Hornigold had said that the _Scarborough_ was anchored on the far side of the island. By the time they spent hours sailing around, the Navy ship would be long gone, with Eleanor Guthrie and whatever other prisoners they pleased. There was no way to run, to fight, or even to stand their ground. They could scuttle like rats from place to place, but their goose – rather morbidly appropriately, considering the day – might be well and truly cooked.

Just then, as they veered into another alley, a shutter banged above them, and the absolute last person Emma had ever expected to see leaned out of a window: Mistress Regina Mills in the flesh, who had apparently settled quite well into a new establishment here. She stared at them for a long moment, the shutter banged closed again, and as all of them were thinking that they were now and officially fucked, the door jerked open. "Get in before somebody sees you."

Not particularly having the luxury of looking a gift horse in the mouth, they did so, piling into the narrow corridor as Regina jerked shut the door and slammed the bar in. She led them past a half-open door, and as Emma caught a glimpse of half-dressed girls sitting on the laps of three Navy officers with their cravats off and their waistcoats unbuttoned, she realized both how Regina had known that Hume was here, and how she could guess they might be in a bit of a jam. Not that this was necessarily any more comforting – if Regina had all of them as well as the _Scarborough's_ lieutenants as pieces to barter with, she might be able to drive an agreement entirely to her own satisfaction with Hornigold and Hume. What that might be, if she intended on handing over Emma or keeping her personally to torment, whether she was loyal to the Navy or to herself or anything at all, was impossible to say.

They climbed the dim stairwell and followed Regina into an unused room at the end, whereupon she shut that door as well and whirled on them. "What in the _devil_ is going on? I think I have some idea, but I would appreciate clarification. The last thing I expected to see was Navy men walking into a brothel on Nassau, so I told the girls to get them drunk and pump them for information, but this – "

"We'd like some as well, madame." Flint's voice was tipped with ice as he put Miranda down on the bed. "Hornigold appears to have sold the information to the Navy about our presence and whereabouts, in exchange for Hume setting sail here at once to risk a sneak attack. I'm well aware that you used to be Antigua's favorite purveyor of flesh for the high-ranking command. How bloody easy would it have been for you to meet with Hornigold and arrange for this information to be dispatched to any of your little rats back at headquarters?"

"I had nothing to do with it." Regina's face was white, except for the patches of hectic color burning high in her cheekbones. "I've been doing just as I was told to, keeping my head down and running a business. I don't have any loyalty to the Navy beyond how they can line my pockets. Not after – " She hesitated for a long moment, then burst out, "The _Valiant_ should never have been given that assignment. Dani – Captain Colter was too new to his post. He didn't know the region, they should have let him start with something easier, but they didn't care. They sent him out to die, and they didn't even _care."_

"Caring isn't something the Navy does," Killian said grimly. "And as there are three former members in this room, I imagine Flint and Bellamy can back me up on this."

"Colter got himself killed by sailing into that storm." Flint was completely unsympathetic. "It's just chance that it happened to be after the _Blackbird._ Unless you're still blaming Emma for it?"

Emma herself was utterly astounded that Flint had just said something that didn't even take the usual tremendous amount of squinting and backbending to be interpreted as defending her. Perhaps it was because Miranda was sitting right there, perhaps it was because they had been through enough by now to dent even his legendary solitude, but it was quite remarkable. Nor did Regina appear to have an immediate riposte, though she looked as if she very much wished that she did. There was a long, tenuous pause, until she snapped her mouth shut with a click. "That is none of your bloody business, especially as long as you're under my roof, and only I'm standing between you and an unpleasant reunion with your old friends, isn't it? I doubt there's any chance of taking to your ships and fending them off, so what are you planning to do?"

"We should tell you why?" Flint's lip curled. "Thinking how much you can charge to hand us over, is that it? A woman like you always has to turn a profit."

"And that's different from you how?"

"Bloody hell, you two." Killian waded into the fray, clearly in the role of exasperated peacemaker. "Hornigold and Hume have almost certainly caught up with the _Scarborough's_ sailors and the Navy mutineers they let out of the fort by now. They have likely at least a hundred men on shore already, and more waiting in reserve. We either spin up some magical plan to make them disappear, or we fight them in some desperate, haphazard last stand. Ideas?"

"Aye." Sam's voice was hoarse and rusty-sounding, barely more than a whisper, but it made all of them spin around. "You hand me over."

"What?" Killian stared at him. "You must be bloody joking. None of us are doing that."

Sam stared defiantly back. "Yes, you are. You misunderstand. I'm not offering myself up to be martyred. Not that I expect that gang of scabrous warthogs to keep their word, mind you, but they did say that if you handed me over, they'd call off the attack on the rest of the island. That's their weak spot, you see. They're so bloody arrogant that they want to stretch it out, they want us to cower, they want us to await Lord Robert Gold's almighty boot heel from on high, to crush us like the cockroaches we are. They likewise know that they can't take all of Nassau with one ship, so they have to bluff most impressively. We can't fight them off, because our own ships are still barely seaworthy and we can't get around the island to intercept the _Scarborough_ in time. So it's a standoff. They bluff, we bluff, but either way, people will die if we don't do something. We can hole up here and settle in for a siege, while they blast their way through a defenseless ragtag of drunken, unarmed men and leave Nassau severely weakened for Gold's counter-punch when it does come. Or we hand me over and. . . come up with a better plan."

"Sam. No." Killian's lips were white. "You can't – that bastard, Hume, he'll – "

"Oh, I'm sure he'll try to hurt me." Sam smiled. For the first time any of them could remember, it was not his usual smile, the one that shone like a lighthouse from his warm and generous soul, but something absolutely cold and terrifying. "But that street goes two ways."

"No," Flint said. "Hook is – I hate to say it – right. We can't do that."

"Yes," Sam said stubbornly. "Yes, we can. All of you know it. I'm not afraid of that man. He wants me to be, but I'm not. He tried to destroy me before, he didn't succeed, and he's sure as fuck not going to succeed this time either. You hand me over as an apparent capitulation, they take me to the _Scarborough,_ and haul me off to Antigua to stand trial for piracy. Just think of the spectacle that will be. Black Sam Bellamy brought to justice at last. They'll drag it out. They'll wait for reinforcements from London. It wouldn't be until later in the spring. That gives us time. And if the _Jolie Rouge,_ the _Whydah,_ and the _Walrus_ should happen to appear just as they do. . ."

Flint, Emma, and Killian exchanged aghast looks. They could, totally unwillingly, follow the thread of the utterly insane and dangerous gambit that Sam was proposing, and risking his own life on. If they gave up Sam as the bait and set the trap, they could have a chance at taking out not just Gold, but Jennings, James Nolan, and all the new ships sent from London to replace the ones Killian had burned. But if anything, the slightest thing, went wrong anywhere, if Gold wasn't inclined to wait but decided to hang Sam on the spot, if Hume decided to keep him for his own sick revenge rather than yield him to the Navy bureaucracy, if any other of the thousand and one possibilities slipped a gear, Sam would die, and that nearly felt like the worst price they could pay. Emma knew that Flint, for all his walls and brutality and well-established habit of betrayal, would die himself before handing Sam, the ghost of Thomas Hamilton, the only man who had ever slipped into his castle and seen what was truly left of him, back to the English government, back to the cruel men and the worse system that had killed Thomas and destroyed Flint and Miranda's lives in the first place. She didn't know if Flint was in love with Sam, exactly, as that was no longer something he allowed himself to give to anyone besides Miranda, and he had already come so close to losing her that he was barely balancing on the edge of a truly black precipice. But it was also true that Sam affected him very deeply and very powerfully, and failing him, no matter the wrack and wreckage that had already become of Flint's heart and soul, would be one thing for which even he could never forgive himself.

"They'll kill you," Killian said at last, quiet and pleading. "You have to know they'll kill you."

Sam shrugged. "I'm sure they'll try. On the event they should succeed, believe me, they'll get absolutely no satisfaction out of it. Besides. I've trusted all of you, helped all of you, the best I can. Am I wrong to trust that now you'll help me?"

Nobody had an answer for that. Sam kept waiting, eyebrow cocked, as a palpable current of despair passed around the room at the realization that they couldn't propose a viable alternative. That if they also wanted one good shot at their ultimate enemies, save Nassau from having both arms broken, and otherwise dodge the cannon blast aimed at them, they would have to give Hornigold and Hume what – _who –_ they wanted, the one none of them could stand to lose. It was unconscionable and even worse, inevitable. Their backs were against the wall, with no way out. This, or annihilation. It was only a matter of when.

"So," Sam went on, when the silence remained. "Let's sort it out. I hand myself over, and you two – " he glanced at Killian and Flint – "get ready to come after me with the _Jolie_ and the _Walrus._ As Killian pointed out, the three of us are all ex-Navy, and we all left because they tried to destroy everything we were. Isn't there a certain fitting delight at standing together and striking back, as one? Paulsgrave Williams will serve as captain of the _Whydah_ until I'm freed, but first he has to take you two – " he gestured to Emma and Miranda – "as well as the boys, to safety. Then he'll sail to join us in Antigua for the party."

"No," Emma said. "Sam, you can't think that I'll –"

"Emma, you're over five months pregnant. Miranda is still recovering from the closest anyone can come to death and tell the tale. The lads can't fight, nor should we expect them to. It's not a judgment on whether or not you're strong enough, or if you're worthy enough. We know you are, so very much. But the fact remains that it would be criminally bloody irresponsible to put you four in the firing line again, and since that's the case, the wisest plan remains to get you the hell off Nassau. The war is coming. We can't pretend it's not."

"Where, then? Where?"

Killian glanced at her, then sidelong at Regina. Something passed between them that Emma didn't quite catch, as if Regina was about to say something and then didn't. Then he turned back to her. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, love. Believe me. But if neither Sam nor I can take care of you, see to it that you and the child have a future, there is one other man who will."

"Who?'

"My brother, Liam. The real one." He looked at her levelly. "He swore to me that he would protect you no matter what, and regardless his personal feelings for you, as the mother of my child. He's been recuperating on the Maroons' island, north of here. I don't think it's a wise idea for me to go back personally, as I. . . with the chieftain's daughter, Ursula, I. . . let her down badly, and seeing me again could inflame the issue. But if you, Miranda, and the boys went there on the _Whydah,_ I think that would work. Poseidon, the chieftain, he told me that they respect Sam, and that several of the freed slaves who serve on Sam's crewhave families on the island. I think they would agree to take you in on his behalf."

"If that's the case," Regina interrupted, "I'm going too."

Killian gave her an extremely skeptical look. "Oh? You already made sure you could come to Nassau with me, since you'd be so bloody bored there. _Now_ you want to go back? Get a shot at Emma when I'm not there to stop you, is that it?"

"I already told you I don't have to do anything to her," Regina snapped. "And besides, you and I both know that even if I was so stupid as to try anything in front of your stubborn self-righteous jackass of a brother, he'd inflict another serious wound on himself to stop it. As well, since you apparently forgot it while jumping to the wrong conclusion, I'm the one who brought you to the Maroons in the first place. I know them, I do business with them, I have the connections you don't. My motive is the same as yours. If the war is coming here, I intend to survive."

Killian glared at her, but could not rebuff this. Likewise, it was plain that Flint would need no convincing as to the wisdom of getting the women to safety, but he was still not about to give up Sam without a fight. "I'm sure I don't need to remind everyone that the _Scarborough's_ lieutenants are downstairs right now, drinking and fucking to their heart's content, and it would be criminally stupid to let that leverage get away. We seize them, we can twist some kind of concessions out of the traitor and the shitstain when we go to make their infernal bargain. Or – "

"Seize them with what?" Sam looked tired. "We don't have any weapons, remember? Though I'm sure your sarcasm or your stare could metaphorically kill a man, that doesn't do us a damn lot of good at the moment. Do you think that Hume would blink at stabbing them in the back? In case you're wondering, he wouldn't. He'll say that they're degenerates who deserve their fate and cut them loose. All you achieve is dragging this out, making Hume even more determined to hurt me in retaliation, and wasting time that could be better served planning your attack on Antigua. It isn't going to work, James. You know that."

Flint opened and then shut his mouth. He looked close to uncertain as anyone had ever seen him, wounded and angry and dangerous. "No," he said again, almost as if he hadn't meant to but couldn't stop himself. "No, I'm not giving you up."

"Yes, you are." The ghost of a smile crossed Sam's lips. "All of you are, and that's final. There isn't another choice. Now, we can sit here bickering, or we can get this over with. And – " he tilted his head at the window, as there had just been a distant crash on the front door of the brothel – "it sounds like they've found us. So. Shall we?"

He turned on his heel toward the hall, even as the others lunged after him. But he didn't look back, striding confidently down the stairs as they followed, Miranda and Regina included, just in time to see the door splinter, then swing inward. A dozen Navy men in uniform, muskets slung over their shoulders and swords half-drawn, advanced inside, Hornigold and Hume bringing up the rear. "We know you ran in here!" one of them shouted. "Come out, or I can promise, this entire place will burn like the bloody pit of fornication that it – "

"No need to shout, gentlemen." Sam stepped into view, hands raised. "I believe I'm what you were after?"

That caught Hornigold and Hume on the hop, as they clearly had not counted on him actually giving himself up. The Navy men pointed their guns at him, but Hornigold made a brusque gesture to lower them. "So. Going to play the hero again, are you?"

"No, I'm just calling your pathetic bluff and reminding you why the crew chose me over you." Sam shrugged, descending step by measured step. "I'm sure it will do wonders for your reputation, now that you've finally completed where you've been headed all along and run cravenly back into England's arms. There won't be a single man who calls himself a pirate who will ever sail with you again, Benjamin. I do hope you bloody enjoy it. When they're done, they'll hang you alongside me. We can dance the gallows jig together. How's that for irony?"

"I'm not going to die." Hornigold drew himself up. "You, on the other hand – "

"Now, now, Captain Hornigold." Hume was having trouble being quite as smug as he doubtless wanted to be, with the heavy, mottled bruising and swelling on his left cheek and jaw, but his eyes burned nastily. "Recall that that is not your decision to make. Lord Robert Gold has the ultimate say on what fate should befall such a notorious criminal. Look, Samuel. All your so-called friends standing there without a word, ready to let you give yourself up on their behalf. Finally found out what sort of man you really are, did they?"

"Oh, we fucking well did," Killian snarled. "And what it means is that we'll all gladly butcher you like the animal you are at the first chance we get, you vile bastard."

"Captain Killian Jones, is that you?" Hume's bruised lips peeled back in a rictus of a smile. "How delightful to cross your path again. From the moment we met on Eleuthera, I had a feeling you'd end up going over to the rabble. Believe me, I'm well acquainted with the reports of your recreations. We'll be sure to save an extra noose for you."

Killian didn't answer, but it seemed to be taking every drop of his self-control not to race down the stairs and gut Hume on the instant, bargain or no bargain. Emma reached for his hand, holding tightly, as both of them were clearly desperate for some last-instant Hail Mary that would prevent them from having to watch Sam give himself up to this man, with no guarantee whatsoever that he would survive such a harrowing wager. Sam, for his part, kept descending, step by measured step, until he reached the bottom, held out his hands, and said, "There. All yours. Now, I believe the bargain was that you call off your dogs, and the rest of the island goes free, until Lord Robert arrives to. . . sort them out."

"Oh, it was." Hume's face remained alight with sheer malevolent delight. "Not that I am not sorely tempted to alter it after what Captain Flint did to me, but unlike you worthless guttersnipes, I _am_ a gentleman of my word. So – " he raised a fist, beckoning to the soldiers – "we'll be on our way. Men, would you please ensure that our old friend is. . . taken care of?"

One of the soldiers stepped forward with a heavy set of shackles, locking Sam's wrists into them, as Emma, Killian, and Flint all made a barely-restrained sound of sickened fury. Sam himself stood as cold and magnificently as the statue of a Roman emperor, as if the scuttling of such vermin was far beneath him, as Hume seized him, spun him around, and then looked up at the party on the landing. "Friendly warning. If you try to ambush us on the way back to the _Scarborough,_ or do anything whatsoever to show that you are anything but in absolute compliance with the bargain, I shoot him dead on the spot. Not to mention, any of you involved. I am sure, therefore, even fools like you will consider your actions carefully. Merry Christmas."

With that, just as the three lieutenants who had been debauchedly enjoying themselves came pelting up in a panic, tying their cravats and gabbling apologies, Hume beckoned to the soldiers, who shoved the door open again, and they marched out into the cold grey dimness, as the fair day had quickly gone sour as if in reflection of the unfolding events. Everyone stood there, stunned into silence, until Flint spun on his heel. "No. Fuck whatever that lying scum said. We can't let this stand. We have to go after Sam, we can still get him back, we – "

"He'll shoot him!" Killian whirled around as well, voice rough with emotion, as he caught Flint's arm with his hook. "Listen to me, mate. Do you think it's not bloody eating me up inside as much as you, as much as it is any of us? Do you think Sam wants us to run headfirst, outnumbered and outgunned, directly into the _Scarborough's_ teeth right after he's already wagered his own life on us doing our part? If we just get shot like dogs, we've failed him, we've bloody failed everything he trusted us to do, and I don't know about you, but I don't want to do it one more time! Not with everything that's at stake! Not like this! Not him!"

Flint breathed furiously through his nose, face white and eyes almost hell-black, half-hearing the sense and half-disregarding it entirely in the haze of the need for revenge. But he at least was well aware that Killian was the only other person present who understood him exactly, that what he would dismiss as craven excuses from another man was the bitter truth from his younger self. After another moment, he jerked his arm out of the hook's grasp and brushed himself off, almost vibrating with barely contained rage. "Of course," he said. "We should be _prudent."_

"We'll burn them." Killian kept his eyes. "I swear it. I bloody swear it."

"Aye." Flint bared his teeth. "All of them. Now, if we're letting him walk away, then we should be making our plans. They'll rue this day. All of them. Everywhere. They bloody, bloody will."

* * *

After the joy and camaraderie in which Christmas day had started out, it ended in black, seething gloom. Nassau had been overturned in less than twelve hours, with Eleanor also taken away aboard the _Scarborough_ as a condemned prisoner, the mutineers freed from the fort (and by the sounds of things, helping themselves to quite a bit of Vane's treasure on the way out) Sam en route to Antigua to await the worst of whatever Hume and Gold's combined perversity could dish out, and any illusion of remaining safety comprehensively and poisonously destroyed. Half the pirates still didn't have a clue that anything had happened, having happily slumbered in a drunken stupor through the whole ordeal, and Flint almost killed a man who seemed to find it funny. Emma and Killian managed to haul him off in time, though both of them were on the hair-edge of snapping themselves, especially since they had to decide whether to set sail immediately – get to Antigua too soon, and they would miss their best shot at taking out Gold and the rest of his ilk, as well as possibly goad him into killing Sam before any further interruptions could be made. But miscalculate, get there too late, and Sam could already be dead.

This was not to mention that there was still significant repair work to be done on both the _Whydah_ and the _Jolie,_ though they were at least capable of floating without assistance. That meant another expedition for Flint to capture a ship, which would take at least a fortnight, and the _Whydah_ of course still had to deliver Emma, Miranda, Regina, and the boys to safety on the Maroons' island before it could reconnoiter with its compatriots to attack Antigua. They were engaged in a very terse argument when Charlie said abruptly, "I want to fight."

"I – what?" Emma looked at him in horror. "No. You need to come with us."

"I'm eighteen," Charlie said stubbornly. "I'm not a child. And you. . . you've been fighting for me and Henry this entire time, haven't you? Even if we didn't know it until recently, you were. Right now you can't, but perhaps you can let me pay back the favor. I'll stay on the _Whydah._ I'll join Sam's crew. I. . ." He hesitated. "I'll be a pirate too."

"Charlie, no. Being a pirate isn't something you do lightly, and it's not something you can take back. All this time, I've done my best to pay for your studies – you can be a solicitor, you can have a real and honorable profession. They will hang you as a pirate if they take you, and that's assuming you survive. Please. Don't throw it away."

"It's clear that Henry and I aren't going back to Virginia any time soon." Charlie looked at her with the mirror of her stubborn expression. "And that even if we did, you can't really send us money as before, now that the entire Caribbean knows who you are. I don't want to sit in hiding. I like Sam too. I'm going to fight for him. And for you."

Emma was both touched by this pronouncement and terrified that her eighteen-year-old brother would think that he could join up in the middle of a fierce battle, fought by hardened men who had done this all their lives and had absolutely no qualms about burning and beating and maiming and killing. Charlie, no matter how good his intentions, would be chewed up and spat out by the brutal reality of the pirate life, but she also couldn't realistically forbid him from finding out for himself. Not that she wasn't going to try. "Please at least think about this. I know it sounds exciting, like being part of a greater cause, but I wanted to keep you away from this for a reason. If you go, you won't be able to change your mind. You won't be able to turn back."

As she could have feared, this did exactly nothing to budge Charlie's conviction, and she glanced at Killian for help, hoping he could get through to him. Killian, however, was looking at Flint, dark brows drawn, until he said abruptly, "Vane."

"Fuck! Can't we just leave him squatting on his pile of sparkling shit and – "

"No, we bloody can't, and you know it. Hornigold just stabbed him in the back, emptied out the fort's dungeons, handed the prisoners over to the Navy, and let them rob him as they pleased on the way out the door. There's no way Vane will stand for that. Whatever alliance they had is gone, and he'll explode like a mad dog one way or another, so it makes sense to try to get him to do it with us. Besides. There's one other wager we'll have to make with him."

"Oh? Pray tell, please. Whatever stroke of genius you've cooked up to make you think that Charles fucking Vane can be remotely counted on. If you think he might have some tender desire to rescue Eleanor Guthrie, forget it. He already betrayed her by taking the island with Jennings. Those two are burnt and buried. Not everybody is as driven by love as you seem to – "

"It didn't have anything to do with that." Killian looked at him coolly. "I was talking about Blackbeard."

That did succeed in taking Flint by surprise, but he worked it out in a moment. "You think we can get Blackbeard on our side via Vane. Because Jennings, the other man who taught Vane everything he knows, is such a good friend of ours. Of course."

"Blackbeard is Hornigold's former first mate. He took control of one half of the pirate fleet when Hornigold was deposed, and Sam took the other. I guarantee Blackbeard hates Hornigold just as much as we do, and as much as Vane now does. As well, if we went after Antigua en masse and didn't invite him, he'd be furious that he missed the fun. Once again, it's the risk of whether we want him going bloody mental as a lone wolf, or if we can persuade him to help us."

Flint shook his head as if he could not possibly contemplate such naivety. Then again, he had absolutely no instinct to make alliances, to look beyond his own capabilities, to believe anything good of anyone, or conclude that they would not do the same as him, and jettison anyone who was no longer useful, knife plunged deep in back, before it could be done to them. Finally he said, "If Blackbeard and Vane sailed with us, I can guarantee they would join forces to destroy us as soon as they were done. Unless – "

"You make unsavory alliances based on the needs you have. Not on the ones you wish you did. I'm sure you know that." Killian looked back at him coolly. "Pirates betray each other. It's what they do. Surely you're not going to let that stand in the way of doing what we have to?"

Flint opened his mouth, but Miranda laid a hand on his wrist. "James," she said. "He's right. We aren't going to save Sam by you thinking you can take them all on alone. Think about it."

Flint chewed his tongue mulishly, as this was clearly the last thing he wanted to do, but as usual, he was forced to listen to her. "Even if we do go to Edward bloody Thatch with begging bowl in hand, for all the good it's likely to do us, that's another journey to Ocracoke, unless we get wind that he's come south to the Caribbean. Do you think he's going to take two or three unfamiliar rivals suddenly sailing into his hideout as anything but a threat? The _Queen Anne's Revenge_ runs forty guns. We should be prepared for a shootout."

"Aye, I'm sure that's the best way to run a delicate diplomatic mission, wait until the smoke clears and see if there's enough left to barter with." Killian's fingers tapped restlessly on the table. "Besides, that's the point of recruiting Vane. He goes to Blackbeard, he sells it as revenge on their mutual nemesis Hornigold, and it doesn't expose us to any unnecessary risk or politicking with an unpredictable commodity. I've already gotten Vane to come to our side once. Considering how bloody pissed he must already be at the world's worst business partner, do you really think I couldn't swing it again? Hornigold made him a fool and a dupe, and considerably lighter in the pocket as well. If you can keep that in sight, as well as the fact that Vane saved us from Jennings – aye, we might still mistrust him, but there's no way we would have cleared out that festering carbuncle without him – we could have a chance."

Flint once more looked at him with the sort of grudging admiration he had been forced to deploy more and more often when it came to Killian's strategical acumen and ability to weigh and analyze a situation. "Not bad," he said, which, for him, was the equivalent of a torrent of giddy and gushing praise. "That way, we run comparatively little risk for a possibly considerable gain Either Vane and Blackbeard fuck off somewhere on their own and certainly are no friends to the Navy while they're doing it, or they fuck off with us and give Gold, Jennings, Hornigold, Hume, and the rest of those filthy dicks an extra kick where it hurts. There's no way they could be prepared to counter five fully armed pirate ships, no matter what Gold is requesting for backup. We could have an armada of our own. Win not just the battle, but the war."

Everyone exchanged a look, as it was plain that Flint had gone, almost that fast, from deploring the very idea to envisioning himself as fleet commander, commodore and general of a final mighty charge to break the back of English power in the Caribbean once and for all. As if this was remotely possible considering the mesh of personalities that would have to be involved, but, well, that was Flint for you. He was clearly also thinking that if Blackbeard took the little social visit amiss and accidentally killed Vane before he could get a word out of his mouth, this would likewise be no loss to anyone. "Fine," he said. "You do that, if it's so important. But it had better not be our only plan. Are we – " He glanced around. "Is there even any fucking food?"

It was far from the Christmas dinner they had envisioned, eating the cold leavings from the brothel's kitchen in the dim back parlor as half-dressed whores occasionally wandered in for scraps. Regina declined to answer any questions about how she might have set up in business so quickly, remarking with a demure, blood-drawing smile that surely any lady knew better than to kiss and tell. She likewise did not appear concerned about the possibility of leaving a profitable house behind if she was to accompany Emma, Miranda, and Henry to the Maroons' island, which Emma had hoped would weigh on her considerations. The two of them still hadn't exchanged an actual word, though she could feel Regina's dark eyes flicking to her now and again, uncertain whether they were putting aside her grudge or doubling it. After all, here Emma sat, safe and free, clearly expecting the child of the man next to her, who was holding her hand beneath the table and giving her occasional sidelong glances – the man Regina herself had commissioned in pursuit of her vengeance in the first place, just to twist the knife. Emma did not feel responsible for Daniel Colter's death, or that she had done anything outside what any pirate would have done with the Navy after them and a choice for survival to be made, but she could understand, at least, why Regina would have taken the idea into her head. If their positions were reversed, rational or otherwise, she would want Regina to suffer too, though she couldn't say she would have gone to the same extremes. But though she might understand the other woman, she did not feel bound to extend any overtures of friendship or conciliation, letting her guard down, or otherwise allowing herself to be blindsided. She had lived in this world too long for that.

They finished eating in a silent gloom, everyone doubtless unable to keep their thoughts away from Sam, and whatever he might be enduring in the _Scarborough's_ brig. They knew he was strong, but nobody should be forced to test it in such a ghastly fashion, least of all him. Hume would have to be careful not to leave any marks, as even a pirate could accuse the Navy of wanton and inhumane brutality if they were dragged to trial covered in bruises and beatings, but someone like him was clearly exceptionally skilled at that kind of thing, of slipping the stiletto bloodlessly between the ribs, to leave the deepest cut and the fewest scars. _At least to outward glances._ Emma didn't have much appetite to start with, and after a few forced bites, she pushed her plate away. "I think I'll. . ." She glanced at Killian. "Go to bed."

"Aye?" Flint put his goblet down with a bang and got to his feet. "I'm going to find the bloody _Walrus,_ see how many of the miserable scabs are fit to piss in a straight line. We'll sail tonight."

"James." Miranda reached for his hand as he turned to reach for his jacket. In a voice so quiet that only Emma could hear her, she said, "I know you need to capture a ship to finish the repairs. But remember that. And remember as well what battle you can fight, and which you can't. You still have a chance to save Sam. You can't save Thomas."

Flint flinched, ever so slightly, but didn't answer. He bent and kissed her hand quickly, thumb stroking over the ring that Sam had given them. Then he straightened up, pulled on his jacket, jerked his head in the tersest of nods at Emma, Killian, and the others, and vanished into the night like a hungry wolf.

Somewhere in the hall, the clock struck the hour.

* * *

The last week of the year was dour, cold, tense, and grim. Killian did manage to connive a second meeting with Vane, at considerable risk to his skin, but as most of it involved Vane pacing like a stalking tiger and swearing to dismantle Hornigold and anyone else in his way, it was hard to tell if it would extend to sailing off to find Blackbeard and extending him the offer of a grand alliance. It did not, however, seem likely. Vane just wanted revenge, as well as his money back, and saw no reason to involve his ex-mentor in said proceedings – as Flint had noted, his previous betrayal of Jennings had made him extremely unlikely to want to roll the snake-eyes on another such individual. Blackbeard had been a bit of a reach in the dark all along, so they had to proceed as if he would not be a factor one way or the other.

New Year's Eve was hardly an occasion for celebration, and was kept with a subdued supper at the boarding house: Emma, Killian, Miranda, Charlie, Henry, and Will. Pirates being pirates, the fact that they had gotten drunk and all but slept through a Navy invasion on Christmas did not prevent them from immediately doing the same thing a week later, and Emma kept nervously peering through the front window in search of more uninvited guests. Obviously it wasn't as if Hornigold and Hume would be back, having gotten what they wanted, but the most paranoid part of her couldn't let go of the idea that they had somehow already returned with a fleet – even if such a journey was completely impossible in just seven days. They probably hadn't even made it to Antigua yet, much less collected reinforcements, but she couldn't help it.

Turning away, Emma paced restlessly back to the kitchen, where nobody was succeeding in pretending they were having a good time, not even Will. After a few half-hearted toasts, they gave up, and she helped Miranda upstairs to her room, wincing as the baby rearranged itself with its sharp little heels directly in her spleen. Noticing her expression, Miranda said softly, "You really don't need to be doing so much for me, my dear. I'm much better, truly, and you should be thinking of yourself. What time you have left with Killian. . . I don't want you to miss it."

"We're. . . we're trying not to." This was in fact mostly true; they had been sleeping in the same bed since their reconciliation on the night of Miranda's miraculous return, and their need to be close, to know the other was there, real, still living, still trying, meant that they quite often slept in the biblical sense of the word as well. Yet as vital, as raw, as hungry as they were, as well as they went together, the sparks that they struck and the sheer delight of communion and completion, there was some small cold part of Emma that knew it could never be enough. They couldn't fit a lifetime into whatever stolen moments these were, they could never have the future she so badly wanted, they could not even guarantee that Killian would ever see his child's face, and the bittersweetness of it, the beauty and the poignancy, the simple and shattering tragedy, made her heart ache until she thought it might explode. As if she could not contain the strength of it, the warmth, the bedazzlement, and the depths of the cold ash it would leave when that fire inexorably was quenched, the churches ran out of candles, the sky of stars went dark and void. Even thinking about it was too hard to face for long. The more she let him in now, the greater the damage would be when, as she knew was coming, she lost him.

Yet she didn't say so. Wondered if one of them, her and Killian or Flint and Miranda, would be allowed to live happily ever after, or even at all. She opened the door and assisted Miranda in to sit down on the bed, which they both did with a sigh. They sat there in silence, until Emma said abruptly, "If you ever had a daughter, what would you have named her?"

Miranda looked up in surprise. "What brought that to mind?"

"In Boston, when I told you, you. . . you said you thought of it. That you would have liked a child, perhaps, but it was never meant to be. You must have imagined that child, though. We all do. Even if it's never more than in passing. And I just. . . I wondered."

Miranda was quiet for a moment, looking down at her hands on the worn fabric of her skirt. Then she said, "I grew up as an only child, as I've told you. The daughter of a rich man, destined in turn to wed another rich man in a proper London society wedding, and live the cultured and sheltered life I had always been trained for. I had a friend, though, the daughter of a mere footman of the household and thus not someone that it was considered decorous for me to socialize with. We were like sisters, stole sweets from the kitchen and gossiped under the bedcovers and had adventures, braided each other's hair and told each other all our secrets. And then, well. . . she died. In the winter of 1694, in the same smallpox epidemic in the City that killed Queen Mary. I was just engaged to Thomas, and had intended her to be the maid of honor at our wedding, to damn-all with protocol. His father said to me that it was a good thing she had died beforehand, and thus spared him the embarrassment of seeing his son wed a woman attended by a footman's daughter in St. Paul's Cathedral."

"Jesus." Emma had never met Lord Alfred Hamilton, of course, but she knew more than enough, from this and the other tales, to hate him. "Seems he began as rotten as he ended."

"That man was always rotten." Miranda smiled grimly. "James served him only as he merited."

She paused a moment, then continued. "I thought to myself, well, you miserable old man, I'll have a better revenge. After all, he would only have been forced to suffer it once if she attended me at our wedding, so I decided that as soon as I had my first daughter, I would call her after my friend. How much more would the wretched codger have to stew in his own vile juices if his granddaughter was named in honor of a servant? But while Thomas and I did enjoy each other in bed, it quickly became clear that he was a man who could never be entirely satisfied with a woman. We tried to be faithful to each other, to be sure, but it was little good for either of us. So, because I loved him, I agreed that he could take a man for his lover, and if any rumors arose, I would deflect the blame for it, allow scandal to be cast on my reputation, that I was merely yet another bored society wife entertaining herself while her husband was away in Parliament, rather than anyone should suspect the truth. And it did wonders. James was not the first man we shared, but he _was_ the first one that both of us fell in love with, and. . ."

She stopped again, composing herself. "You know that English common law automatically decrees any child born to a married woman to be her husband's, even if everyone knows there is almost no chance it is. Thomas knew I wanted a child, and when it became clear that he was unlikely to give me one, told me that I could take any lover I wanted, and he would happily acknowledge any resulting offspring as his own. I thought of it, to be sure. But I. . . for better or for worse, I wanted it to be _his_ child, my husband's, not merely some handsome aristocrat who I didn't know from Adam. Besides, I could be the one who was incapable, not Thomas, and thus all the outside trying in the world would make no difference. So again, I put it aside."

Emma squeezed her hand. Even as close as they were, Miranda had rarely spoken this candidly of her past life or her first husband, her life in London in the gilded birdcage of high society, her struggles with Lord Alfred Hamilton from the very first days of her marriage. Some wounds were still too deep, even after all this time. "And then when you and James were exiled to Nassau, as you said, you accepted it as punishment."

"Oh yes." Miranda's smile was very faint and very sad. "I dreamed up a child then, to keep myself company. I think I would have gone quite mad otherwise. The daughter I had imagined having with Thomas was a proper lady, one who knew how to dance at balls and speak French and play the harpsichord and sing, whom I would teach to dress and behave and everything else expected of her, but also to know her own mind, and to value it. The daughter I imagined with James could not have been more different. A girl growing up here would be no lady, no proper English rose, but as wild as sea and sky, learning rope and sail and in all likelihood, all manner of terrible oaths before the age of five. The two girls in my head could not be less alike, but I loved them both, even though they had never been. When I finally accepted that I would never have either, I had to mourn their loss as if they were living children, and I had buried them."

Emma's throat thickened, and she couldn't immediately answer. Then at last, she asked quietly, "And so. . . what was her name? Your friend?"

Miranda took a moment to answer, still lost among her ghosts. Then she said, "Geneva. Her name was Geneva, though I called her Jenny. Those were the girls. Lady Geneva Hamilton, and Jenny Flint. I cannot say that I do not still grieve for what they could have been, that they died before they had ever come to live, because I do. But I do not dwell on them any more. I have let them go. As I said, I had a daughter after all, and her name is Emma."

Too moved to speak, Emma leaned in to put her head on Miranda's shoulder, their cold fingers finding each other in the darkness. Then at last, Miranda shifted, kissed her forehead, and said softly, "Go to him, my dear. I'll keep."

Emma hesitated, then nodded. Got softly to her feet, let herself out, and went down the hall, to the room at the end. She couldn't say she was sad to be out of the attic, but it was hard to enjoy sleeping in a proper bed every time she thought about Sam. She prayed he was giving as good as he got, as he had made it clear that he had no intention of serving as Hume's sadistic plaything without retaliation, but if he fought too hard, they might just kill him and save themselves the trouble and expense of a trial. To be sure, Gold would be furious if they deprived him of such a spectacle, but he could compensate for it with a successful invasion of Nassau. If. . . if. . .

Emma shook her head, opened the door, and let herself in, as Killian glanced up with a start; even if they had been sleeping together every night, he still did not expect it or take it for granted. He was in his shirtsleeves, cumbrous leather brace unbuckled and removed, though his stump was bandaged; he was leery about letting Emma see it in its full mangled glory, as if it might repulse or revile her. She shut the door behind her, then came over, sat on the bed, and took hold of it lightly, as she would his hand. He looked up at her with a wry, tired smile, tensing but not pulling away. "Not much of a good omen for the new year, is it?"

"I don't know." Her fingers circled the abrupt end of his wrist, carefully in case she might hurt him, just wanting to freeze time, to stop the world from turning, to keep them here in the softness and the silence of the night, before the daylight would inevitably come. Then she shifted, turning to face him, and took hold of his good hand, tugging up her shirt and curling it around the warm skin of her belly. "Do you remember our conversation about a name?"

"Aye." His attention was torn between following the movements, and paying attention to her. "Did you think of something, then?"

"I had a suggestion, yes." Emma shifted her position, leaning back against the pillows, but keeping his hand on her stomach. With that, she told him the story Miranda had just told her, and finished tentatively, "So, if you agreed. . . after everything, after what Miranda's done, what she's meant – if you don't like it, we can come up with something different – "

"No," Killian said at once. "Absolutely not. It's a beautiful name. Geneva." He pronounced it with a soft Irish lilt, markedly different from his usual proper English accent, that made Emma's heart flip. _"Geneva._ And if we can give Miranda something she so deeply deserves, even better. Do you. . . do you happen to know what Sam's mother's name was?"

"Aye," Emma said quietly. "Elizabeth."

"Geneva Elizabeth." Killian tried it out aloud, so that both of them had to take a moment to catch their breath at the reality of it, the elegance of the name and the depth of the emotion behind it – and the fact that both of them knew they were choosing it now because they might never have another chance. "Well, it'll be awkward if she ends up being a lad then, won't it?"

"I. . . I don't think so." Emma tugged him toward her, as his arm came around her shoulders and tucked her against him, her nose in his neck, breathing him. "But if so, I will name him Sam."

"Nobody could argue with that." Killian's voice was very soft, his hand stroking her back, as he pulled out the quilt and got it up over their legs. She clutched hold of him, suddenly utterly unwilling to leave him, no matter what the best decision was for them, for her, for the fight that was coming. It was another thing she wanted to ask Miranda, who had such long experience now in letting Flint go, knowing what he faced every day. It was different for Emma, since she was just as used to being in command, to controlling her own destiny, to winning her own battles, and being asked to step aside was the last thing she was accustomed to doing. Still, she could at least accept that now she had other people to help her, that she didn't have to do everything herself, and hence could take care and consideration for her own future. And yet. Facing danger yourself was always easier than asking someone you loved to do it on your behalf.

She didn't say anything, though. Merely nuzzled closer, listening to their breathing. Wanting to stay awake, to glean whatever moments she could, what small pieces she would have to use to fill the empty spaces later, but she was only human. And so, despite herself, she slept.

* * *

January, the Year of our Lord, Seventeen Hundred & Sixteen, started off with a torrential thunderstorm, and did not appear inclined to improve much from there. It was still tearing leaves off the palms and roofs off houses, sending any unsecured cargo cartwheeling across the beach, and tossing the ships at anchor like toys (thus leaving Emma and Killian on permanent edge that all their weeks of repairs were about to be smashed to kindling in a few capricious hours) four days later when Flint returned, towing a ship that looked as if he had started to destroy it and then remembered halfway through that he needed it intact. It was a large snow with a good-sized crew, which Flint had also gotten halfway through before grudgingly remembering to stay his hand, and it was clear from the general expressions of the men on the _Walrus_ that it had been the devil of a fight to take. John Silver seemed to have had something sly to do with it, and while Flint still to all appearances could not stand him, Emma got the sense that Silver had quietly and deliberately gone about making himself indispensable to his captain's troubled and fragile second reign, that he had made it clear he could do far better with his cooperation than his contrarianism, and that Flint at least had enough of a well-honed self-preservation streak to know it. Indeed, she wasn't sure she liked how chummy Silver had become, apparently now serving as acting quartermaster in Gates' place (though there was a cautionary tale if you ever needed one) and he had turned up at the strategy meeting brazen as you please, all slick charm and winning smile, to make sure nobody forgot his previous contribution – or his current one. "Sorry, we're supposed to be launching an attack on _Antigua_ now? Even weakened, that sounds like suicide."

Killian shifted his weight. He had made it abundantly clear that he, at least, had not changed his opinion of the slippery bastard at all, and no wonder. Emma knew that they had met as boys, that Silver's father had been the Captain Silver that had held Killian and Liam in bondage, and thus also the one Liam had arranged to have drowned to buy their freedom. That could hardly be a pleasant connection, and all Silver's self-serving manipulation and service as the devil's advocate could hardly have endeared him to Killian any more upon their reunion. "Nobody asked you for your bloody opinion, you know."

"Maybe not." Silver shrugged. "But after the ordeal we had trying to take the _Ann Gally –_ that's the ship's name, by the way, in case anyone was wondering – I would be remiss not to point out, Captain, that the men are wondering just why they have to keep putting their necks on the line for your personal vendettas. There has to be profit involved in this somewhere, doesn't there? Even you wouldn't attack Antigua on sheer outraged principle alone."

"You think you know quite a bit about me, don't you?" Flint growled. "As for profit, I stole forty thousand dollars from the Spanish wrecks just a few months ago. It's not my fault if they've drunk or pissed or fucked all of their share away already. Not to mention the other ships in the last six weeks. Any man who wants to carp that I haven't taken a good score, or that we need another one already, can shove it up his arse."

"I understand you, believe me. I'm just saying that they may not." Silver smiled. Emma was finding that it irritated her more every time he did. "Unless, of course, I could tell them just what awaits us on Antigua? The prospect of glorious sacrifice for a greater cause motivates soldiers. Not pirates. You wouldn't be taking us to die just for your interests, surely? Not at all like you."

Flint continued to regard his underling with a hooded, loathing gaze. It was clear that he would cut off his own arm, roast it, and eat it with apples and a nice red wine, sooner than telling Silver in the slightest degree about the true nature of his determination to rescue Sam. "I've told you, it's a. . . collaborative effort. The _Walrus,_ the _Whydah,_ and the _Jolie Rouge_ all sailing together. Even the _Ranger,_ if Vane shocks the world and does something useful with his life. A chance to revenge ourselves on the _Scarborough_ for all the misery it's caused us, and the Navy more generally. That should be enough for them."

"Except for the fact that they aren't deserters from the Navy," Silver pointed out. "You and our – friend – " his eyes flicked to Killian, who stared belligerently back – "may have something rather more personal vested in this, but they don't. Oh, I'm sure they'll happily cause mayhem, but they need a larger cause. And not just martyrdom, which I likewise do not support. Death may be glorious, but it's so final. Living is much more useful."

"Fuck their larger cause. They're my men, they'll sail where I tell them to, and more importantly, where _you_ tell them to. You want to play at being valuable to me, well, be fucking valuable and maybe you'll accidentally stumble into it. Or are they a bunch of spineless chickenshits too frightened to face the Navy head to head, after they slept through Hornigold and Hume's little Christmas present? Maybe they can use the last of their money to buy themselves new trousers."

"It can be arranged." Silver took a sip of his rum. "Just tell me what we're really fighting for. I can spin it to them somehow, but just between us, don't I deserve to know the truth?"

"You don't deserve a poxed whore on a freezing night."

"Grouchy, grouchy. Has anyone ever told you that?"

As Flint opened his mouth for what was sure to be an even more heated rejoinder, Killian broke in. "Bloody hell, you two, enough. You're telling me that your men are cowards, Mr. Silver? I burned Antigua's entire harbor, and at least six ships, with my one. This time we'll have three on our side at least, possibly more. I'd offer to hold their hands, but alas, that is also something I only have one of. Because the bastards took it, along with much more. Whimper and mealy-mouth and beat around the bush if you're fucking frightened, but I'm going."

"See." Flint raised his cup in sardonic toast. "We're going."

Silver evaluated both of them with a raised eyebrow, as if trying to discern the cause for this apparent solidarity after Flint had spent so long disdaining Killian nearly as much. "Well. Far be it from me to stand in the way of success. I do hope this Bellamy fellow is worth all the fuss."

With that (more or less) settled, they sent men to strip the _Ann Gally_ and distribute her parts and timbers to finish the repairs on the _Whydah_ and the _Jolie._ It took another three days to finish, and then the _Walrus,_ which had been sailing hither and yon with very little respite, had to be hauled onto the beach, careened, refitted, resupplied, and otherwise touched up, which was a monumentally difficult task. With Eleanor Guthrie gone, the island had devolved into a mess of small-time suppliers, all fighting to establish a monopoly on the market and to offer their goods at better rates than everyone else (while simultaneously cheating their customers out of an appreciably useful cut of the take). There was also no way to be sure how or where future spoils would be turned into hard cash; everyone had deplored Eleanor while she was around, but seemed to be discovering just how much more they would miss her now that she was gone.

At this, Killian, sensing an opportunity, informed Regina that she should stay and take over; a hard-nosed woman with an eye for a deal and no tolerance for fools would find it easy to step into Eleanor's shoes. As well, it would keep her off the Maroons' island and thus away from Emma, which both of them were still uneasy about. Regina, however, utterly disdained the idea that she should be expected to spend the rest of her life managing a shithole like Nassau, and they would just have to remedy their trade difficulties without her assistance. Nice try.

It was into the fortnight of January, over three weeks since Christmas and Sam's capture, when they were at last finally prepared to sail. They couldn't risk waiting any longer; it was too early for Gold to have gotten reinforcements from England, but he could have called in Navy ships posted in the Americas, of which there were several – including, of course, the _Windsor,_ under the command of Captain David Nolan. As well, rumors were starting to percolate in that the Jacobites, under the command of the Earl of Mar, had been dealt a sharp defeat at the battle of Sheriffmuir in November, and that James Stuart had been forced to flee with his tail between his legs. If this was true, it would have grave political repercussions for covert Jacobites in the Caribbean – not least, of course, Lord Archibald Hamilton in Jamaica, and all his machinations in service of the Stuart cause. If Gold scented an opportunity to crush all the traitors at once, he might well do exactly that, and to hell with waiting for spring. It was now or never.

They were down at the docks and preparing to board their respective ships, Emma and Killian unwilling to say goodbye for what might be the last time, when someone shouted. As such, everyone looked up, and saw an unfamiliar ship at the mouth of the harbor. Not a Navy ship, but a pirate vessel beyond a doubt, low-riding and well-gunned, flying a distinctive standard: a crowned skeleton spearing a heart and toasting the devil. One that was known, but rarely glimpsed, at least for several years now, in Nassau. One which meant –

As they stood there, a boat launched, several men began to pull its oars with great alacrity, and it sculled closer and closer, until its captain stepped onto the sand and regarded the assembled company of pirates. He was tall, well-set, and wearing a leather bandolier slung with pistols and grenades, and a sword swung at his side. All of this, however, was incidental before his beard, a fine bushy black specimen twisted with the remnants of charred fuses, and his deceptively jovial grin. He surveyed them for a long moment as the silence stretched out almost audibly, nobody wanting to be the first to break it. Then he unscrewed his flask, took a long sip, and flung it to the sand with a splash.

"Well, well, well," said Edward Thatch. "You're all having a party to go after the fucking Navy, and you didn't even invite me?"


	30. XXX

**-XXX-**

There was a broad chink in the door of the _Scarborough's_ brig, a missing corner between lintel and jamb, just large enough to allow a beam of dusty sunlight to spill through and illuminate the filthy straw on the floor, like spun gold from Rumpelstiltskin's spindle. It was also just large enough that a tall man could conceivably get his hand into it, pull the crack wide enough to get at the heavy deadbolt on the other side, and – again, conceivably, with a bit of ingenuity, pry it loose. Even if the man was in irons, there was enough slack in the chains that it would not be altogether impossible. Get the door open, and –

 _And what?_ Run smack into the middle of a Navy ship in open water, far from any friendly outlaw port, one unarmed pirate against several hundred sailors with muskets, cudgels, cutlasses, pistols, and in a pinch, their fists or a particularly inedible chunk of hardtack. Nowhere to go but over the side, into shark-infested waters, or tied to the mast and whipped to bleeding for the edification and amusement of the crew, who would be savagely pleased to see someone besides themselves suffering the brunt of the captain's cat o'nines. Besides, he had promised, he had given his word, he couldn't arse the entire thing up now with an ill-advised and doomed-to-abject-failure escape attempt. He knew that. Had decided it from the moment he committed to this insanely dangerous wager and everything it meant, either way. But still. It didn't mean that that tantalizing glimpse of freedom, of possibility, of changing whatever fate he had already thrown for himself, didn't, just that little bit, get to him.

Sam shifted his position against the splintered boards, wincing as the fetters caught at the deep raw chafes they had begun to wear into his wrists. It had also occurred to him that in addition to having enough chain to allow him to weasel a hand through the door, there was certainly enough to throw around a man's neck and strangle him, if it came to that. It would be a long and messy business, and the struggle would attract attention, and it would likewise end with him lashed to the mast and cursing the day he was born, but the option _was_ there. And it would be used, if need be. Certainly in preference to what else might be in store for him if he didn't.

Thus far, however, there had been no visitors, or at least not individual ones. Whenever he dozed off, he would invariably wake to find a few of the junior sailors goggling at him through the air holes – he would always wave pleasantly at them, and was tempted to ask if they were expecting him to perform a trick. Look, a real live pirate, caged up in the guts of their ship, on his way to face justice and the block. Rancid grog, maggoty biscuit, and tasteless gruel were shoved through the slot twice daily, as they didn't want him starving before their spectacle could be put on, and Sam had briefly contemplated doing just that, to spite them. When it came down to it, however, hunger won out. Once he'd picked the weevils out of the biscuit, softened it in the gruel, and choked the whole disgusting mess down with the grog, it at least kept him alive. And alive was how he intended to stay. He had told his friends that he wasn't going into this to martyr himself, and he certainly bloody well did not intend to. Strangling a man to death with his chains, after all, would only work if he himself was strong enough to pull it off, and not some etiolated, stumbling skeleton. _Come for me, you bastard. Come on. I know you want to. I'm waiting._

It was the fifth or sixth evening out from Nassau – in fact, as far as Sam reckoned it, New Year's Eve – when at last, sometime well after the evening bell, he heard rattling at the door, jolting him out of a shallow, uncomfortable doze. He tensed, drawing his haunches under him, unable to repress a sudden memory of the darkness of the _Windsor's_ orlop deck, the smell of fresh-tarred rope and the way it bit beneath his fingers as he struggled not to fall. He swallowed hard, tasting something bad in the back of his throat, and growled, "If you're popping by for a pleasant midnight social call, why don't you just fucking come in? Bad manners to loiter at the door. Not, of course, that I'd expect anything better from you."

"Charming. Always were." The bolt clanked, the door opened, and Captain Josiah Hume held out a tray laden with food: real food, heavenly-smelling, served on a porcelain plate with a glass of freshly uncasked claret, roast and gravy and potatoes and bread and butter, cranberry sauce and peas. "The officers were having a small New Year's supper in the mess. I thought you might care for the leftovers. But if you're not interested, of course – "

"The fuck you thought I'd _care_ for some." Sam did his best not to breathe in, or show just how much his mouth was watering, his empty belly practically rattling against his backbone. "Go serve it to Eleanor Guthrie, if you're so determined to show your snake-oil gallantry. Unless you've already stripped her and sent her to the pleasure of your men?"

"Absolutely not. I am, as I mentioned before, a gentleman. She may be an abominable traitor and accessory to piracy and under her own death sentence, but she has been courteously kept in good quarters and allowed her meals and privacy. I would never mistreat a lady."

"Like hell you wouldn't." Sam folded his arms, which was better than letting his hands shake. "And I don't want any of your food or your poisoned charity, Josiah. Get stuffed."

Hume's expression flickered ever so slightly. Then he shrugged, put the tray down, hauled in a trestle, and set the food on it, seating himself on a cask, tucking a napkin into his cravat, pulling out a knife and fork, and starting to eat. "You're welcome to join me, you know," he remarked between bites. "I can't imagine you've had much to speak of in the way of hardy fare. And Gold's not much into feeding his prisoners either, from what I recall. If you cooperate with me, I can change that. Or. . ." He shrugged again, nipping a bite of meat off the end of the fork. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time the Navy turned a blind eye to depravity, would it?"

"Cooperate with you?" Sam barked an incredulous laugh. "What, you think I'll let you sneak down here and pick up where you left off, in exchange for some scraps from your table? Bend over and fuck yourself with a burning ramrod. Never."

"What? You think _that's_ what I want?" Hume looked equally amused. "I seem to recall that was all _your_ fault, Samuel. I was merely serving in my capacity as an officer of the Royal Navy and punishing such unacceptable behavior. No thanks to you and Nolan trying to destroy my career over it, but I seem to have come out rather well. Fortunately, the Admiralty saw the truth of your pathetic lies, so anything you try to dig up again now will only backfire on you. Be assured, I have no interest whatsoever in your . . . charms. I want information."

"Then you're going to be equally disappointed, I'm afraid." Sam smiled, cold and close-mouthed. "None to offer. So keep eating like a hog in a trough, and I'll just sit here and watch. Terribly sorry."

"Oh?" Hume ripped the bread apart and dipped it in the gravy. "None at all? When you are in the unique position of having become a close confidante to nearly every leading pirate captain on Nassau? We'll overlook Hornigold – he's a useful stooge, but you and I both know he doesn't really count. Glory days over long ago. I know you're good at making people like you, Samuel. To tell you things. These men – Flint, Vane, and of course our traitorous newcomer, Jones. And this play-actor of a captain, your lady friend, Swan. What drives them? Why would you side so particularly with them? And why would they, for that matter, with you?"

"If you have to ask, you'll never know." Sam crossed his boots and leaned back, which seemed to obliquely irritate Hume. Just to be sure, he smirked. "Must really get your goat that you can't get to me, mustn't it? Keep eating. I'm sure that wine really adds the perfect finishing touch."

Hume dabbed his mouth with the napkin, set it down, and continued to regard him coolly. "Swan seems to have conveniently gotten herself with child to avoid the noose. Yours?"

"Are you asking for advice with women? First tip, Josiah. Don't be a raging prick."

"My wife has no complaints, if you were wondering."

"Of course she doesn't, as long as you're away at sea tormenting everyone else. I daresay if you ever actually came home, she'd think of a few."

"You really aren't afraid of me, are you?" It was spoken with almost genuine interest, as Hume leaned on the table and regarded him curiously. "You would, of course, have every reason to be. We are both aware of what fate awaits you on Antigua, and even before, if I chose it. Either you are not wise enough to comprehend the true gravity of your predicament, which I doubt, or you simply have chosen not to care. Other men would be afraid, Samuel. Why aren't you?"

"How many footmen does it take to wipe King Geordie's arse? He's German, does his shit smell like bratwurst?"

Hume laughed, but his eyes had gone colder, narrow, threatening. "Are you a Jacobite, then?"

"I don't give a ripe wet fart who sits on the English throne. Either way, he's no king of mine. I'm a free man, and I always will be. Either way, Josiah, this palaver has been fascinating, believe me, but it's making me sick to keep watching you chew your cud. Try to hurt me however you think you can, or scuttle with your tail between your legs. You're boring me."

Hume stood up quickly enough to rock the trestle, splashing the claret onto the rough boards like a bloodstain. "You have quite a tongue for a condemned traitor."

"And you have quite a gut for a giant typhoid shit in a fancy uniform. No wonder, if you always eat like this in front of your prisoners." Sam grinned ferally. "Get something pleasurable out of it, do you? The same way you did from _destroying my life?"_

" _It was your fault!"_ Hume slammed aside the trestle, sending the food flying, and started toward him, eyes burning. "How many times must I tell you that, you insolent little sodomite? You were fortunate I did not take matters into my own hands and hang you right there! I _helped_ you. I taught you exactly how foul and mistaken you were, and if I could break you from such an urge, as a colt is broken to the saddle, there was still a chance you could go on and have a half-decent career! It was nothing to do with me that you could not see it, and that you got that blind daft David Nolan, with all his overheated notions of chivalry, in on it as well. Both of you – I'll kill you, I'll see both of you hang for treason, I swear it. I did come out as captain, but as I said, that was entirely thanks to the Admiralty seeing you for the lying scum you are. You destroyed _my_ life! And there is nothing, no one, none of your filthy little friends, who can save you from the justice that is coming to you for it!"

Sam could only stare at him, utterly at a loss for words. It staggered him to realize that Hume genuinely regarded himself as the aggrieved party in the situation, that a man was actually capable of twisting and warping so badly as to think that he had, in any sense of the word, _helped_ Sam with anything. For a moment – but only a moment – it almost made Sam feel sorry for him. That this was what the Navy was, that this was what the _world_ was, to think that the fault of the sin lay not with the sinner, but the sinned-against. He had always struggled with the terrible fear that it _was_ his fault, that he had somehow invited such retribution against himself for the mere fact of his existence, for his right to want what he wanted, to transgress against God's own order, to challenge a far greater and more terrible authority and nature of things than an unpopular king and his overweening bureaucracy. Even a brave man felt uneasy when charging into battle against those odds. It would not be human otherwise.

They were nose to nose, Hume's eyes almost black with rage and Sam tensed to spring; he _would_ throw his chains around this animal's neck and put him down if he took another step, to hell with the difficulty and the struggle and the chance of being caught. But he could sense that this time, ever so slightly, Hume was the one afraid of him. There was quite the bit of difference between a scrawny, scared young sailor and a full-grown pirate captain, after all, and as Hume had already tried unsuccessfully to intimidate him, he couldn't be feeling completely sanguine about the wisdom of coming down here alone with only a dinner knife to defend him. Sam remained on utter edge, breathing hard through his nose, fists clenched, until Hume finally took a step backward. "You know," he said. "Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you are indeed quite a stupid man. A wise man would see that I was, once again, trying to help him. As it stands, your death is utterly assured, and will be slow. Painful. Lingering. There could be a pardon on the table if you cooperate. We both know you're far from being the real threat in the Caribbean. Tell me about Flint. Tell me about Hook. Even you can't be willing to throw your life away on behalf of those wastrels. Come on, Samuel. Don't _make_ me hang you."

"Oh? After what you said about being sure that Captain Nolan and I both die as horrendously as your sick little mind can possibly conjure? Do you think everyone's memory is as selective as yours? I'm not groveling and I'm not telling you a thing about anyone and there is no leverage you have to bargain with me or make me listen to you. You're welcome to try to kill them all, if you can pull it off. If so, you'll deserve it. In the meantime – " Sam lifted his head, grinned, and spat full in Hume's face. "Fuck yourself up the Devil's pitchfork. Then twice."

Hume raised a hand very slowly to touch his cheek, with an odd deadness in his eyes that was nearly more unsettling than volcanic rage. He removed a lace-edged handkerchief from his sleeve, then wiped it daintily away. Almost conversationally, he said, "You know, you are _really_ going to regret that."

"Will I? The only regret I'd have was if I had the chance and didn't take it. If there's anything I left out, any way to show you how completely you've failed, how you have absolutely no power of any kind over me any more, please do let me know. I'll be glad to demonstrate on the instant. Otherwise, I suggest getting out of here before I kill you."

Hume took another slight step backwards, moving to get the fallen trestle between them while doing his best to disguise the retreat. "You're a madman, Bellamy. And you _will_ die."

"All men must." Sam shrugged. "It's how we choose to make that end that matters. And if being sane is being like you, I'm happy to be mad. Now, I think you heard me. Get. Out."

Hume hesitated a moment longer, then pivoted smoothly on his heel, stepped through the door, and rammed the bolt in with considerable prejudice. Sam heard the clank and click of another heavy chain and padlock, which rather evaporated any remaining pipe dreams he had about making a valiant and improbable escape. Once he was absolutely sure Hume was gone, he sagged back against the wall, silently shaking. He had played that moment in his head countless times at first, before he decided not to think of it at all and to move forward and to live a life entirely free of that menacing shadow. Had always wanted to think he would be that strong, that dangerous, that resolute, forcing his tormentor to stand down – and he had, God, he _had,_ and he was so fiercely, brilliantly proud of himself that he almost couldn't stand it. But just the same, he wanted to cover his face, wanted to sink down and be alone in the dark, and try, moment by moment, to claw out another breath. To close his eyes, and curl tightly into himself, and weep.

* * *

It was almost a week later when they finally reached Antigua, the journey stretched to nearly double its usual time by the turbulent winter seas in the notoriously treacherous Mouchoir Passage southeast of the Turks. Sam had been tossed and pitched in the brig like a rock in a barrel, subject to periodic drenches of ice-cold seawater from the runnels above. He was almost bloody grateful for the miserable fucking hell-voyage to be over, even if it meant the next stage of his ordeal, whatsoever that might be, was now about to commence. At least it would be preferable to a single moment more of God-be-damned _water._

The sky was cold and low and sour as the _Scarborough_ docked at the St. John's quays, the ones Killian had left unburnt despite his reign of terror at English Harbor to the south, and Sam and Eleanor were marched down the gangplank in irons, tokens to be presented to Lord Robert as evidence of their victorious exploits. Sam couldn't help glancing around for other ships he might recognize – such as, say, the _Bathsheba,_ as he was not going to hold back, regardless the potential cost to his own neck, if he got one good clear shot at Jennings. He wasn't sure whether or not to be happy that it wasn't there. Jennings abroad was not likely to be improving anyone's lives, and was probably up to some malfeasant secret mission for Gold, if he had gone back over to the governor's side following his embarrassing whipping out of Nassau. As long as he got back in time for the party. Wouldn't be one without him.

Instead, Sam glanced over at Hornigold, who was strutting and preening so insufferably that a convenient fireball from the heavens, to smite him down on the spot, would have been the least the universe could do to prove that it was any kind of a just and equitable place. The fat bastard had probably been living it up on the Navy's shilling, enjoying cozy dinners and post-prandial drinks and pipes with Hume and plotting to betray him first, even as Hume had all but confessed he was planning to do to Hornigold himself. It would have been almost enjoyable to watch them rip each other to pieces like sharks at the chum, if it wasn't so bloody infuriating. At the moment, they both still hated Sam enough to remain tenuous allies, but that was liable to be dissolving in a hurry. Though Hornigold should watch it, here in the headquarters of the Royal Navy itself. He might be a valuable turncoat now, but he was still a pirate who had caused plenty of headaches for them in his day (long ago as it might have been). Be a shame if anything happened to him.

They were marched up the muddy road toward the governor's mansion, the palm trees barely visible in the fog and a brisk wind scraping off the sea, then obliged to wait, still in their shackles, until one of Lord Robert's minions got around to answering the door. They were then showed inside to the sitting room, wild animals on display from the menagerie, until the governor himself finally appeared. Apart from a brief flicker of his eyes, he evinced no particular reaction to their presence, at least until he turned to Hume. _"This_ is what you've spent so much time and effort hunting down, dearie? Hardly looks worth the effort."

"It is, I assure you." Hume offered a sickly obsequious smile. "The girl is Eleanor Guthrie, the one who ran all the pirates' merchant enterprises on Nassau. The man is Samuel Bellamy, the infamous Black Sam. I daresay you will have heard of _him."_

"Mmm. Yes. But I _was_ really hoping for Flint." Gold poured himself a snifter of brandy, surveying his captives with hooded eyes, then knocked it back and set the glass on the sideboard. "He is, after all, the one causing us the most trouble in the region – apart, of course, from our old friend, Lieutenant Jones. Do you think I'm terribly impressed by you wasting my time, and that of the Royal Navy's, on your petty personal grudges?"

Hume looked caught off guard. "Your Excellency, I am not entirely sure what you – "

"Don't you?" Gold grinned, not particularly reassuringly. "No ulterior motives in capturing the patently least useful pirate that you could have? All of them at your mercy, and _this_ is the one you choose to take? You know, I may have to look into why exactly they promoted you to captain. Not like the Admiralty to choose a dullard, rich father or not."

"Your Excellency, I assure you that will not be necessary." It was warm in the sitting room, but drafty enough away from the fire that the dew of sweat on Hume's forehead was clearly not due to the temperature. Sam didn't know if he should be enjoying this, considering how terrible Gold himself was and just as likely to turn on him next, but bloody hell, he did like seeing the bastard squirm like a speared worm. "Bellamy is just as bad as the rest of the vermin, if not worse. It will be a perfect opportunity for you to demonstrate to their kind, especially after the outrages that Jones committed on our very soil, that there is no trifling with the power of – "

"Oh?" Gold gestured to the armchair by the hearth, its back to them, which – everyone realized at the same time, an instant too late – had someone sitting in it. "Is that what he'd say, then?"

There was a split-second, shared nauseous silence, everyone doubtless wondering at once what spectral monster he had conjured to appear against them – and then the occupant of the chair stood up. Far from a monster, it was a trim and tidily attired Royal Navy captain in his tailed blue coat and cravat, gold-trimmed tricorne tucked under his arm. "Good day, Captain Hume," David Nolan said coolly. "I do hope you're most outstandingly well."

Hume and Sam opened and shut their mouths in unison, at a loss for words, for stupendously different reasons. Sam managed to control his face, meeting Nolan's eyes with no more than a brief and passing acknowledgement, though a sudden and savage hope had leapt up in his gut that he had to fight to control. This was the one man he had both not expected to see in this rats' nest, and who might, who just might, be able to help him. Clearly Gold had sent to Boston for the _Windsor's_ assistance, as it was the largest and strongest Navy ship within a thousand miles now that the _Imperator_ had gone rogue, and Nolan had been only too happy to fill him in on certain sordid details of the _Scarborough's_ commander and just why Hume had insisted on taking Sam particularly. If it was enough, if it was possibly enough to reopen the whole mess – it would be a cold day in hell before Sam counted on the Navy to do justice to anyone anywhere, even by accident, but what Hume had done was still a hanging crime, and the Admiralty did not tend to be lenient about its punishment. Sam was already under a death sentence, so it was scarcely as they could do anything worse to him, and even if he did die, seeing Hume brought down at last would be the only final wish he could hope for. Indeed, it took everything he had not to accidentally blurt something out, and he glanced down to hide a violent grin. This was suddenly going far, far better than he had ever dared to dream of.

"Captain. . . Nolan." Hume's face had gone the color of bad milk, but he recovered himself enough to offer a tight, loathing little nod. "What a. . . pleasant surprise to see you here."

David gave him an even icier smile in return. "Indeed, Lord Robert's hospitality has been scrupulous. We've certainly had plenty of time to talk, so he can be best acquainted on the state of things and the decisions he might have to make going forward. I do hope you intend to work with us on this, Josiah."

"Of course." Hume would have had indeed to be a complete idiot not to hear the clearly implied threat in this, and whatever else could extensively and justifiably be said ill of him, he at least was not an idiot. Regrettably. "What work could be more important than coming together to defeat the pirate menace once and for all? Including the ringleaders that I have most providentially captured for us, whilst you were sitting and sipping tea. Surely it would be a pity if anyone mentioned to the governor that you might have pirate sympathies yourself?"

"Indeed, not least because it would be slander and calumny." Nolan put his hat down on the table, picked up Gold's decanter, and poured himself some of the brandy, somehow neglecting to offer Hume any. The well-mannered war going on here was, Sam had to admit, really quite something. "A man in considerable command difficulties already – potentially, of course – might wish to avoid adding to his woes with a false lawsuit."

Hume's fat lips went thin, which was indeed quite a feat. His eyes flickered from Gold to Nolan, as if trying to judge who was responsible for this conspiracy against him, what Nolan might have already spilled, and what powder he might still be keeping dry for further shots. "You're trying to help _him._ Bellamy. Don't bloody deny it."

"How could I, when I had no idea he was coming? Unless, of course, there's something you want to say in this company about the motives I would have for even possibly doing so?"

Hume chewed his tongue, furious but stymied. Even he was not so thirsty for revenge as to accuse a respected captain of treason to his face, not without solid proof, and not with the shadow of the noose suddenly having edged uncomfortably close to his own neck. He flung another burning look between them, then turned back to Gold, clearly sensing the need to salvage something from the situation immediately. "If the governor is displeased with my efforts, I'll be happy to redouble them. I do feel it worth pointing out that I am the only Navy captain who has actually _captured_ a pirate. The rest of them seem to be either dead or – " he looked straight at David Nolan – "traitors. They can critique my choices when they bring in one of their own. Wouldn't you agree, Lord Robert?"

"Oh, certainly." Gold was smiling merrily, clearly thriving on the discord. "Which is why, Captain Nolan, I do expect you to be everything I brought you here to be. This is a most delicate time for us all, and loyalties cannot afford to be confused. Inelegant as he might be, our friend Josiah is correct. Samuel Bellamy _is_ a pirate, and I am quite sure we will not have to deal with any ill-advised efforts on your part to help him. After all, I _did_ hear from Captain Jennings that you fired on his ship, outside Boston, and allowed the _Walrus_ and Captain Flint to get away, as well as the loss of a valuable hostage. You also held Captain Jennings' person in custody, until you somehow contrived to lose him too. This seems to have to do with a certain Captain Liam Jones, who – I am sure you know – is likewise wanted by the Admiralty, and myself, for high treason alongside his brother, Killian. Surely neither gentleman of either description will have crossed your path, at least when you were aware of the need for their apprehension?"

"Henry Jennings is a man without a conscience. Or, for that matter, a soul." Nolan clearly did not intend to be taken to task for his treatment of such a wretch. "As for my actions in Boston, I can account them fully to anyone's satisfaction. Captain Jones was looking for his brother, on your errand, to stop him as ordered. Surely there is no treason on my part for hearing him out."

"We'll see, won't we, dearie?" Gold gave him a malicious little grin. "My opinion would certainly be swayed if you were, say, to capture said brother. Goes by Hook these days, if you somehow haven't heard. The _Windsor_ is the only command capable of matching the _Imperator_ gun for gun – I know we're in need of all the ships we can get our hands on, but I think we can make an exception for you to sink this one, eh? A books-clearing victory of that magnitude. . . we could call it square for anything untoward you might have done to Captain Jennings. Fail, however, and I might start to wonder if there was something to Captain Hume's accusations, just as I am wondering if there is something to yours."

At that, whatever thin veneer of enjoyment Sam had been taking in the proceedings snapped like a dropped plate, as it abruptly became clear to him what Gold's angle was. He didn't particularly care whether either Hume or Nolan were correct in their accusations, but he would absolutely leverage it into a competition for all he was worth, goading and baiting them into taking more and more risks to please him, lest he suddenly lend a sympathetic ear to the other. Sam didn't know the full story of what David had done in Boston after he had pointed them toward Emma and Miranda and promised not to interfere – though this rumor of him shooting up Jennings was most enjoyable – but it was certainly enough to give serious weight to the possibility of the treason label sticking. That was of course, likewise, a hanging crime, and naturally Gold would not have called on David for help without making sure he had the hell of a trump card in his back pocket, in case the captain felt inclined to do anything else disagreeable to Jennings. _Bloody hell, the man is a bloody fucking cannibal._ Sam could almost – almost – admire the skill with which this diabolical stratagem had been spun, but it left him with a sick and sour feeling in his stomach, that faint flame of hope whiffed out as fast as it had come. Of course he had been an utter idiot to think that David would be in any position to help a convicted pirate without putting his own neck on the chopping block. And now, if he went after Killian –

"As for our charming friend here," Gold went on, turning to Eleanor, who regarded him defiantly. "She will, of course, be shipped onto England at the first opportunity – but that is, as yet, a long way off. We could not risk such a valuable prisoner being drowned in a freak winter storm. But be quite sure, I have written to London to convey the extent of the pirate threat in the Caribbean, how very strong it has gotten, and asked them to send their full complement of reinforcements. Things will be most unpleasant for your friends on Nassau soon, Miss Guthrie, so perhaps if you had anything you felt it pertinent to tell us?"

"Go to hell," Eleanor said angrily. "If you think I'm working with you – "

"Oh, I do think so." Gold regarded the pair of them with that insouciant smile. "I have a number of assumptions about both of you, in fact, and I am most confident in their veracity. Here. Allow me to demonstrate."

With that, he reached into his breast pocket, pulled out something – and then, quite a bit faster than a fifty-something governor with a lame foot should be able to move, lunged at Eleanor with it, just as Sam's brain registered that it was a knife with a black handle and a twisted blade, not at all the sort of respectable weapon that an ordinary nobleman should be carrying. He reflexively dove in front of Eleanor, throwing up an arm to block the blow – even as she turned so that he was fully in front of her, so that if someone _was_ going to get stabbed, it would be him. In any event, neither of them did. Gold halted the blow before it landed, tucked the strange-looking knife back into its pocket, and brushed off his hands with a smug look. "There. Hardly needs an explanation, does it?"

"What the fuck was that about, you mad bastard?" Sam took a furious step, chains rattling, even as the large man in the corner, clearly Gold's muscle in the event of anything going wrong, pointed a pistol at him. "Just making sure we were all paying attention, were you?"

"Merely testing a theory, as it were. It worked quite well. You, Captain Bellamy, will protect others, even if you should perish yourself. Miss Guthrie, on the other hand, will survive, even if she has to sacrifice others. If either of you dispute my conclusions, you're welcome to do so."

Sam started to say something, then stopped. He shot a terse look at Eleanor, suddenly unsure if he could count on her as an ally or not; he had, of course, assumed that they were literally in the same boat, captured and condemned, and that neither of them would even entertain the possibility of making it easier for said captors. He didn't know her well, but he did know that she had dedicated herself to the project of the Spanish gold and Nassau's independence alongside Flint, building the pirates' republic higher and stronger than it had ever been before – what incentive could she have for destroying her life's work? That had been a clever fucking trick from Gold, sure, but that did not mean she would suddenly –

For her part, Eleanor was looking intently at the floor, avoiding both Gold and Sam's gazes. Then she said abruptly, "Charles Vane betrayed me. When he took over with your pet Jennings, after I had finally just made up with my father, after he promised me that we could build what we had always wanted. Vane destroyed it, to get back at me."

"Sounds the sort of thing pirates do." Gold looked even more amused. "This is pursuant to my aims why, dearie?"

"Richard Guthrie?" Sam interrupted. " _That_ Richard Guthrie? He has quite a reputation in Boston, I've heard of him plenty in those parts. The small-time criminal cut off by the rest of the respectable Guthries, who's been squatting on Harbor Island living his comfortable life, away from the danger, and letting you run the enterprise by yourself? Aye, sounds a real winner."

"He's my _father."_ Eleanor looked at him searingly. "He never thought I could do as well as a son, and I've proved him wrong, so now he's going to – "

"What, step in and take the credit once you did all the work? Or would have, if Vane and Jennings didn't spoil the bloody party? Take it from me, my dear, you're underselling yourself. There's no need to ask for his approval or his assistance or his advice. And if you're thinking of spiting Vane in turn by selling out to these human bloody fluxes – "

"I don't need any advice from a stranger to Nassau," Eleanor spat. "If you knew so much, you'd be the most popular man on the island, rather than running scared from it because you can't match against the true hardness of captains who know what it truly takes. Can't even face Hornigold, and we all know what he is." She flung a scathing look at said captain, who had drifted in the direction of helping himself to the brandy. "So pardon me if I'm not – "

"Watch it." Sam's voice was low and very cold. "If I don't know much about you, then you likewise don't know a damn thing about me."

"I work with men who want to survive." Eleanor stared him down. Brave, this one, and strong, both things Sam loved in a woman, but whatever kernel of concern dwelled in people on behalf of their fellows, that altruism, that kindness to temper it, she was utterly without. "Do you or do you not?"

"I don't intend to sell my soul for a few miserly coppers from the Royal Navy and the worst men in the Caribbean, no! If you want to, be my _bloody_ guest!"

"Oh dear," Gold said lazily, regarding the argument. "Not entirely a united front against your tormentors after all, are you? Does anyone feel as if they have something to say? Miss Guthrie, how about you? Still resigned to suffer prison quietly? You must know the noose is no good way to die, and I'm not certain the Navy could be persuaded to make your confinement very gentle until then, given the trouble you've caused us. Resolved to be a martyr? I think we both know you're not."

"I. . ." Eleanor's face was pale. For a moment, Sam felt sorry for her; nobody was obliged to choose such an awful, gruesome, ignominious end if there was any option to live, but he could also sense that everything he had chosen to fight and suffer for, to protect his friends, to give them a chance, was about to crack and fall away. And that, no matter what he had already faced in the _Scarborough's_ brig, of coming face to face with Hume and triumphing, he could feel corroding him, in danger of breaking him, and he didn't know how to stop it if it happened. "I could offer you. . . information. Nobody knows more about Nassau than me."

"We have Captain Hornigold for information." Gold looked unimpressed. "What can you give us that he can't?"

"Hornigold? Please. They'd see that fat fuck coming from a mile away. Everybody knows he was halfway to treason already, they'd kill him as soon as he set foot back on the beach. And you'd deserve it, wouldn't you, Benjamin?" Eleanor gave him a sweetly poisonous smile. "That is, if you even actually went, which you wouldn't. Far too bold of you, actually going somewhere you could be killed. You'd hide behind other men as usual."

Hornigold harrumphed. "May I remind the governor that it is not normally customary to allow a condemned prisoner to speak so – "

"I do not need any lectures on the law from you." Gold raised a hand. "Please proceed, Miss Guthrie."

"As I was saying." Eleanor took a rattling breath, smoothing her dirty skirt and drawing herself up. "I know everything about the island. Who works with who, who doesn't like the other. Not just the geography, but the men. If England wants to retake the Bahamas, they would have to do more than just out-shoot the pirates – and we know that couldn't be taken for granted. You'd have to know what you were fucking doing. And you can't do that without me."

"You don't really care about any of us, do you?" Sam was almost impressed. "Whether you rule Nassau under a pirate flag, or under the bloody Union Jack. As long as it belongs to you and you think you can deal whatever fate you want to it, like a plaything. Really? All because of Vane?"

"Shut up," Eleanor said tightly. "I'll hear no lectures from you."

"Oh, indeed," Gold said, sleeker than ever. "I think we have all heard more than enough to come to a decision for the time being. Captain Nolan, you have your assignment to hunt the _Imperator_ and take her down, no quarter given. Captain Hume, I'll expect you to finally come up with Flint, after all your chasing his tail. Captain Hornigold, I will be keeping a _special_ eye on you. Miss Guthrie, you are my guest, and will be placed under comfortable house arrest – though it wouldn't do to go forgetting that you are still very likely to die, and any lies you tell me will be punished accordingly. Captain Bellamy, this is your last chance. Do you want to die pointlessly, on behalf of those worthless wastrels who assuredly will not repay the favor, or do you want to join us while there's still time?"

For a moment – for a brief, agonizing moment – Sam genuinely wavered. He was, after all, in no hurry to die. He was twenty-eight, a young and vigorous and healthy man who loved life and everything that went with it, sea and adventure and treasure and women and men and wine and food and friends, _life,_ his beautiful girl the _Whydah,_ a deck under his feet, the wind at his back, and the open horizon ahead. He did not want to choke to death at the end of some filthy rope, jeered and thrown offal at by the masses, to a tattoo of Navy drumbeats and Hume's smirking face the last thing he ever saw before he fell into Lucifer's arms in Hell. Did not. Did _not._

But even more, he didn't want to give in. Didn't want to betray everything he stood for, everything he had chosen to live for, everything that had saved him. Refused to think of handing Flint, Miranda, Emma, Killian, and all the others over to be sacrificed on the altar of his own cowardice. If that made him a fool or a craven or too weak for Nassau where they ate their young alive, so be it. At least when he did die – his own voice, whispering to him, _All men must, it's how we choose to make that end that matters –_ his conscience would be clear.

"Fuck you," he said, and grinned. "Go ahead and hang me."

* * *

The bonfire on the beach was nearly large enough to serve as a signaling beacon for the Spanish Armada, if the Spanish Armada had happened to be anywhere nearby and inclined to head for a shallow inlet on the backside of New Providence Island, anchored with four pirate ships and several smaller boats, a swarm of heavily armed ruffians, and other such things that might have daunted even that valiant assemblage. (They'd been good and bloody daunted by the storm and Sir Francis Drake, if Killian recalled his history.) As it was, any Spanish ships in the vicinity were probably desperately trying to protect the treasure wrecks after Flint, Vane, and Jennings had picked them so ruthlessly clean, and this was far from a bold army of England's finest men. It was bold, to be sure. And it was in some sense an army, or at least very good at killing. And it bloody hated England, so there was that as well.

"Aye, I've heard of the lot of you fucking about this way and that and doing exactly shit-all, so it seems to me," said Captain Edward Thatch, lighting a pipe with one of the fuses in his beard, crossing his cavalier boots, and taking a long and luxuriant drag. "And if it comes to the Navy, I've a bloody interest myself. I served aboard HMS _Windsor_ as a young buck, under Captain George King. Never met a man needed more killing than that one."

Killian jerked slightly at the name. "The _Windsor_ is in Boston now, if you were wondering. Has a new captain. Man by the name of Nolan."

"One Navy captain is the same as another, boy." Blackbeard waved that off. "I'll make that Nolan pup squeal, mark me. After we establish first why nobody thought it worthy to send word to me. Regard me so lightly, do you? Not worth the time of day?"

Oblique looks were exchanged among the company, until it was again Killian who answered. "We were planning to. I approached Vane on your behalf. We thought you might – "

"Charles?" Blackbeard raised a bushy eyebrow. "I don't see him here. Odd, that."

Flint shifted, as if burning to say something, but even he thought better of picking a fight just now. Thatch was also a former pupil of Hornigold's, but he had remained everything Hornigold was not: fierce, dangerous, actively engaged in taking prizes and winning glory, cutting a burning swath through the Caribbean and leaving legends of his terror in his wake. How much of it was real, and how much of it was a carefully calibrated illusion meant to scare sailors into surrendering rather than to come face to burning face with the dread Blackbeard, remained a mystery, but either way, there was no denying its success. And they had already made enough of a mistake ignoring and discounting Hornigold. Repeating it with Thatch would be ruinous.

"Charles proved. . . unwilling to leave his fort with all its treasure unguarded," Flint said after a moment, having evidently weighed his words with exacting care. "Not eager to load it onto the _Ranger,_ expose it to theft, and the chance of it all spilling back into the sea if the ship took a direct hit. He hates the Navy too, but not enough to chance suicide by sailing straight down their throats, and he surely saw the advantage with the lot of us leaving Nassau, to take the prizes in these waters without competition while we were presumably getting shot to pieces. He plays his cards right, he emerges as the only pirate lord left, while the rest of us rot in the noose over Antigua. Doubtless it appeals to someone like Charles Vane."

"Oh? And yet I hear that he was the reason you managed to kick that vile motherfucker Jennings out of Nassau." Blackbeard reached for his roast chicken leg, then for his ale horn to wash it down. "Even Vane can't be eager to be the _only_ one left. That means there's no one else for the Navy to hunt, once they've dealt with the lot of you. So is it that he truly saw the advantage in not getting killed – for which I'd not blame him, it's a fool plan in the best of times – or you saw no need to complicate your schemes with his involvement?"

Flint shifted angrily, even as Miranda pulled her shawl tighter and moved to put a hand on his arm. "I assure you, Thatch. We gave Vane every opportunity to come along. That he should spurn them is no fault of ours, or mine."

Blackbeard barked a short, genuinely amused laugh. Killian was not yet sure what to make of this infamous buccaneer, as he had had many ideas about what such a man should or might be, but none quite matched up. He had been expecting a murderous lunatic, with barely any incidental concern for anyone or anything in his way, setting the very sea afire if it should help him to take a prize and the lives of anyone who resisted him. Instead, Edward Thatch was almost. . . good-natured, a man who enjoyed jokes and food and women, who spoke affectionately of his various "wives" (the count seemed to be somewhere around fourteen) and let slip hints of a considerable education from a privileged background. He was well aware and very proud of his formidable reputation, and there was just an edge, a promise, not something Killian had yet seen for himself but knew not to underestimate, that he could be truly terrible when roused to rage. That he was, despite everything, more in Bellamy's mold than Flint's – with a streak of violence and love for chaos that Sam did not possess, but still not a man driven by wounds and fury and vengeance. He had his grievances against the world and the system, as did they all, but it was nonetheless something he controlled, and very deliberately. Despite Blackbeard's reputation as a monster, there was a difference between that, and a man who wore the monster as a mask, could slip it on and off as needed. And quite to his surprise, and almost to his disquiet, Killian had concluded that Edward Thatch was the latter. And a man who _could_ control it, could move back and forth strategically, was a more dangerous enemy than one who ran howling beneath its lash, utterly beholden to its whims. He wanted to be that himself, to let Hook rest on the surface without sinking his claws into Killian's torn and bleeding soul below, but he wasn't there yet, and he knew he wasn't. Thatch had mastered Blackbeard, made him work for him, but Hook still held sway over Killian. Until then, he was at a disadvantage.

"Forget about Vane for a moment," Flint said, sounding as if he wished the world would do this in general. "Now you're here. I assume it wasn't to scout the brothels of Nassau for your fifteenth blushing bride. You _are_ going after Antigua with us, aren't you?"

"Could be." Blackbeard took another sip of ale. "If you tell me what's so damn important as to make the lot of you risk your lives for it."

Flint hesitated. "It's not a what."

"A who?" Blackbeard glanced around at the company. "Nobody's coming to mind who'd fit the bill for such a sacrifice. Unless – "

"They have Bellamy." Emma looked as if she wanted to bite her tongue, even as the collective heads swiveled in her direction. "They captured him on Christmas."

"Bellamy?" Blackbeard's surprise was evident. "They took Sam Bellamy?"

Emma nodded.

"Well. Knew him when we both sailed under Ben Hornigold. He took one half of the fleet when he overthrew him, I took the other. It's true that if there's any one of us who doesn't deserve what the Navy would do, it's him. But I didn't come to be part of some bloody mercy mission. There have to be good pickings on Antigua. Or will be, if we push our attack back until later in the spring, when the supply convoys arrive from England. No profit in barnstorming the place now, just to pick up a few crumbs and rats from their winter stores. If we wait – "

"No." Flint's eyes flashed. "Bellamy would be dead and rotting in his grave by then, even assuming the bastards condescend to give him one. We can't wait until spring."

"Oh, can't we?" Blackbeard looked back at him with the expression of a man who had just sniffed a weakness in a dangerous rival, and intended to press it to full advantage. "What's Bellamy's life worth to you, then? Surely the fearsome Captain Flint can't be dedicated to this mission for the _humanitarian_ sake of it."

"I've taken more prizes than any of you ungrateful fucks over the last few months, _and_ in service of mending your ships. I won't stand for any insinuation that I'm some soft wet nurse who can't face up to what will be – "

"Not _my_ ship," Blackbeard pointed out, with considerable self-satisfaction. "I don't owe you a thing. Though I could outgun you, if it came to that. If the rest of the ships were under my command, they would go to Antigua when I said they did. Not you."

"No, they bloody wouldn't," Killian growled. "I don't care how many guns you run, Thatch. My _Jolie_ runs more. And if you try to stop me from rescuing my – rescuing Bellamy, you're more than welcome to a practical demonstration."

"That so?" Blackbeard chuckled. "It's not about how many guns, boy. It's how you use them. And you're a wet-behind-the-ears greenhorn who still stinks of weak Navy grog. Here's a better idea. Trade me your ship, I'll appoint you back as captain, and we split the profits. You need seasoning as a pirate, and I need a cohort. What do you say?"

"I burned Antigua on my own last time. I don't need bloody seasoning like a goose for the oven. Or to sail under your command as the rented master of my own ship. And as I said, you have no power to stop me from going anywhere I please. I am a free man, same as you."

"Oh?" Blackbeard regarded him shrewdly. "You think my band of hardened swashbucklers couldn't go through your shabby Navy boys like a hot knife through cheese? If you won't trade me your ship, I might just have to take it."

Killian started to his feet, until he was pulled firmly back down by Miranda, who was seated on his left, Emma to his right. "Don't underestimate me, Thatch."

The older man continued to regard him with a faintly amused expression, before turning back to Flint. "So. Say I was to challenge you for command of the fleet. Would it be pistols at dawn, or swords?"

"What?" Flint's face showed, for the briefest of moments, a flash of uncertainty, before it settled back into stone. "What are you banging on about?"

"Simple." Blackbeard shrugged. "We settle this like men, you against me. Single combat. You win, I join my ship to you and your fellows, and we sail for Antigua immediately. But if I win, we don't sail until spring, when there are real takings to be had and real damage to be done. Simple, honorable, clean. Unless you don't have the stomach for it."

"And what? We just sit with our thumbs up our arses in the meantime?"

"Of course not." Blackbeard grinned. "There's plenty more piracy to be done in the meantime that's nowhere near the Navy. But it seems we'll come to agreement no other way, so we will do what we must. When has the great Captain Flint ever backed down from a fight? Think you couldn't take me in a duel?"

Flint turned his head and glared violently at Killian, as if reminding him that it had been his bloody idea to think of involving Blackbeard in the first place, and now look where it had gotten them. "You'd be far more advised to be frightened of me."

"Oh, I don't fear names." Blackbeard polished off the last of his ale and let loose a satisfied belch. "I of all men know what charade and bravado they tend to end up being. You think I quiver at the idea of Flint? No more than do you at Blackbeard. As the challenged party, you hold the right of selecting the weapon. Pistols or swords?"

Flint sneered. "Why satisfy myself with beating you by only one? Both."

"James." Miranda tightened her grip on his arm. "We can't afford – "

Flint ignored her. As well, it was clear that despite her best intentions, there might be no way around this, that Sam's life hung in the balance of how soon they could set sail for Antigua, and if Flint lost the duel, he died. Flint could not back down from Blackbeard's challenge and keep his pride, it would tar him as a coward, and Blackbeard did, after all, have more than enough firepower and men to make life extremely difficult for them if they treated him as their enemy. The silence remained, heavy as lead, until Flint finally spoke. "Fine. Tomorrow. Dawn."

"It's an accord." Blackbeard spat in his palm, as did Flint, and they shook, actively trying to break each other's fingers. "Now go to bed with your woman. If it's the last night you get together, you don't want to waste it."

Flint murdered him on the spot with a look, then held out a hand to Miranda with cold dignity, and they got up from the fire. Killian was about to likewise shepherd Emma away – not that he imagined either of them would get a wink of bloody sleep tonight – when, vastly surprisingly, Blackbeard clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Lad. A word."

Killian was not at all sure it was a wise idea to go off alone with the notorious pirate captain he had openly clashed with earlier – what was to stop Blackbeard from bumping off a junior rival ahead of tomorrow's main event with Flint, after all? But his posture did not appear to be that of a threat, not that that meant much, and after a moment, Killian nodded for Emma to go on without him. When she had, not without a long glance back at them, he said coolly, "Aye?"

"She's your wife, then?" Blackbeard tilted his head after Emma. "Swan?"

"She's – no, she's not my wife. It's. . . bloody complicated." Killian tensed. "I swear, Thatch, fight me too if that's your intent, but leave her out of it, or – "

"Relax, lad. It'd stick in my craw to have to do anything unpleasant to her. A gentleman weds a lady he takes to bed, though."

"Says the man who's been married fourteen times?"

Blackbeard chuckled again. "Who says there's any rule about how many times you can? Only knock-kneed eunuchs in skirts, and the church is surely no authority over a pirate, now is it? I took none of my wives by force. Married them and bedded them and had a fine time with each, then left them with plenty of treasure for their trouble. Women like me too, you know. So why haven't you wedded this one? Especially when she's with your child."

"I – " To say the least, Killian had not expected to be confiding about the tangled state of his personal life with Black-bloody-beard, especially minutes removed from inviting him to take him in a sea battle if he dared. "When a man takes a woman to wife, it should be forever."

"You think you'll meet another one you like better?"

"I – no, but – "

"Let me tell you something." Blackbeard clapped a hand on his shoulder again as they started down the dark beach. "Wedded fourteen times, and none of my wives ever quickened. It can't be that they were all barren, especially as some of them had other children, so it must be me. That's not an easy thing to bear. A man wants a son to follow him, whether he's a baker in Bristol or a pirate in the Caribbean. Swan, well, she's bearing your son – or daughter," he added belatedly, though it was clear which one he considered of greater import. "Your future."

"I. . ." Killian struggled to come up with the words. "I'm not sure I have much of one."

"Maybe not. We die, you know. Often. But that's what a son is for. They go on when you've fallen. What I said earlier about needing a cohort – you've got promise, lad. Great promise. As you said, you burned Antigua. You stood up to me, to my face. I can work with that."

"Are you – " Killian frowned. "Are you asking to – what, bloody adopt me? Peel me off from Flint's coalition, soften and coax me into being your ally against him?"

"Couldn't hurt if I tried, could it?" Blackbeard gave a genial shrug. "As well, I thought you might want to have a mentor that actually paid you back in kind, rather than taking and taking. That's the thing about Flint, you know. As well ask for the regard of a statue, as ask for his. He never gives anything back to anyone. You're stuck with him now from necessity, but for whatever future you could have, it would be better with me than with him. You know that."

"Do I? It wouldn't appear to matter, if one of you killed the other tomorrow."

"The world would be poorly served for us to do so." Blackbeard turned to gaze out over the dark sea. "Flint and I are. . . old friends, in a way. Two of the longest-surviving pirate captains in the entire Caribbean. You don't grow old in this field of work by being a fool. I don't intend to kill him if it can be avoided, and that's my policy otherwise as well. But the matter must be settled."

"I'm going to Antigua either way," Killian said. "You can't stop me."

"Oh, I can." It wasn't spoken as a threat, more as a simple, casual statement of fact. "Though I wonder why you'd be in such haste to offer yourself up to the Navy for Bellamy. Lovers?"

"What?" Killian spluttered slightly. "No, no. He's – he's my friend."

"Ah. Well. We should all be so fortunate as to have friends who would die for us." Blackbeard shrugged. "In this place, though, it's a dangerous thing to value. Think about my offer, Jones. The world could change tomorrow. Don't reject it out of hand tonight."

Killian nodded coolly at him, then turned and made his way back up the beach, toward the assemblage of makeshift tents pitched on the sand. He hesitated, then ducked beneath the flap of one, lit only dimly by the dying embers of driftwood. "Swan?"

"I'm awake." Her voice floated out of the darkness, her silhouette shifting to silently invite him to the blankets alongside her. "I can't stop thinking about Sam."

"I know." He let himself down with a sigh. "I know it's not my fault after all that Blackbeard turned up, but. . ."

"You're blaming yourself." Emma's hand settled over his, soft and tentative. "If he wins the duel, and stops us from getting to Antigua in time."

"Aye." Killian's voice was a whisper. "I can't be responsible for failing Sam."

"You're not. You haven't. Not yet." Emma brushed her loosened hair out of her eyes. "And I – well, I've known Flint for long enough that if there's ever a time when I trust him, it's when his back is against the wall. He'll do whatever he has to. I just hope we don't have to spill more blood over it."

"Aye," Killian said again. Chewed over the words, unable either to get them out or force them to go away, until he finally burst out, "Swan, if by some miracle both of us do survive all this, do you want. . . would you want, well, something else? More?"

Emma's shadowed head turned toward him with a start. She knew as well as he did that both of them had been determinedly ignoring any thought about the future, of making a plan for anything beyond the terrible task that currently awaited them, the magnitude of what they would have to do to even reach it. As well, the fact that doing it felt like daring fate to come down and snatch it out of their hands, that it was too audacious to even think about, when their world was so fractured and uncertain. Thus far, they had muddled along moment by moment, and as Sam had called Killian out for before, the only acceptable future for him seemed to be one where he did not survive, where he paid the ultimate price for his crimes. The idea of getting through that, to a new dawn on the other side, still seemed almost impossible, undeserved, unreal. And yet.

"Do you mean. . ." Emma stopped. "What, get married? Captain a ship side by side?"

"I don't know." Killian stared at the blanket. "I don't know what it would look like."

Emma was quiet, her fingers still resting over his. "Well," she said at last, soft and shyly. "Maybe even if we don't, we can decide that perhaps we should find out. That we. . ." She stopped again. "That we deserve to have it. Together."

"Aye." He lifted her hand to his, and quietly, simply kissed her fingers. "To think that even if you're going to the Maroons' island with my brother, and that I'm going onto Antigua, no matter what Blackbeard thinks he can bloody do to me, that I'll come back to you. That it won't be Liam who looks after you and the child, but. . ." He swallowed. "But me."

"I don't want to be Liam's charity case," Emma said fiercely. "I want you. Killian."

He tried to answer, found himself rather too thick in the throat to speak, and nodded instead. Pulled her against him, with the careful rearranging it took to accommodate her expanding belly, and rested his chin on her hair. Listened to the night go on outside, the world turn softly on, time rush forward on its flow, and – no matter how small he was, a fleck of dust in the eye of God, a speck, a glimmer – held her quietly, and lived.

* * *

The morning broke, ominously and fittingly, in a sullen blood-red dawn, the air crisp and thin as fine-blown glass and a heavy stillness lying over the beach. It also brought an unpleasant surprise in the sight of a fifth ship anchored in the inlet, alongside the _Jolie, Walrus, Whydah,_ and _Queen Anne's Revenge._ A slender, black-hulled brigantine far too familiar to them all: the _Ranger._

"What the fuck is he doing here?" was Flint's snarled reaction, when they had all emerged to take stock of the situation. "The one time I thought he was finally going to stay out of the bloody way, and instead – "

He continued to look irate, but there was a certain flicker of something almost like uncertainty as well. Vane might not still be bosom friends with Blackbeard, but he was more likely to wake up one morning speaking fluent ancient Persian than to be here to help Flint, and this tilted the already stiff odds further against Flint's chances of victory in whatever was about to happen. They watched a boat launch, and a party come ashore, until they were in hailing distance – Rackham and Anne, notably, were among the newcomers, and Killian saw the latter's eyes flick to them. She would never be far from where Jack was, as she was too loyal to leave him for long, but he could at least be sure that she would much prefer not to fight against them. Anne Bonny was a hard bloody nut to crack, but her code was unshakable, and she had no patience for the stag fights and bloviating and posturing of men and their rivalries. If push came to absolute shove, she'd put herself in the way to protect Miranda and Emma. It was simply who she was.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Flint said to Vane now, having been given the opportunity to ask the question at closer range. "What did you do with your bloody treasure?"

"Wouldn't you like to fucking know." Vane regarded him with a smirk. "And I heard a whisper or two in the wind, about what was supposed to be happening this morning. Be a shame if I was already too late."

"Wouldn't it." Flint's tone dripped scorn. Then he whirled on his heel and made a pointed exit, as Killian and Emma followed more slowly; a crowd was beginning to gather down on the flattest, broadest stretch of beach, where the duel was soon to commence. Swords had been thrust into the sand forty paces apart, marking the starting position of the combatants, and as Flint took up his position at one end, Blackbeard emerged from his tent and strode for the other. His expression flickered in equal startlement at seeing Vane, and a smile briefly appeared. But he said nothing, merely approaching at a measured pace, taking in all the watching eyes. If nothing else, this man knew how to put on a riotous good show for the mob.

Killian and Emma congregated at Flint's end, along with the _Walrus'_ men, Billy, Will, Regina, and Miranda. She was pale-faced and tight-lipped, but quite composed, though she stepped forward as Flint unslung his pistol and began to check the priming. "James," she said quietly. "For heaven's sake, shoot straight."

"Oh, that won't be a problem." A sardonic smile showed in Flint's short ginger beard – it might not be nearly as bushy or as black as the legendary item on his counterpart, but it was still nothing to sniff at. "We'll be done before the sun is fully up."

Miranda looked at him a long moment, as if weighing whether to say anything else if she didn't get the chance, then finally nodded once and stepped back. Killian saw her reach for Emma's hand, and took up a position on her other side. Vane, Rackham, and Anne had joined the throng around Blackbeard's end, and John Silver, having appointed himself mediator, strode to the middle of the sand with handkerchief in hand. After ensuring that both Flint and Blackbeard had drawn their pistols, he cleared his throat. "The fight will continue until one or the other cannot go on. Whether that is death, gentlemen, I leave to your discretion. On the count of three, I drop the handkerchief, and the duel commences. On your marks. . . steady. . . one. . . two. . . _three."_

The reports of the pistols boomed out almost in unison, one a split second after the other, and Blackbeard staggered with a grunt of pain, a scarlet flower starting to bloom in his left shoulder. A murmur circled among Flint's partisans, especially as Blackbeard's own shot had missed, and Flint strode forward unscathed to wrench the sword out of the sand. Raised it as Blackbeard grabbed his with his good right hand, they rocked back on their heels, eyed each other – and then without further ado, bull-rushed each other, bellowing.

The swords clanged and sparked and slammed into each other with nearly enough force to rattle the sunrise, twisting and tangling and meeting and parting and parrying and slamming again, vicious overhand blows and underhand jabs, cutting and slashing. Blackbeard had the advantage in size, but Flint seemed to be the stronger, as well as unwounded, and any number of men had learned the hard way that it was a very, very bad idea to get between him and what he wanted. They locked horns, battling for footing in the sand, Flint dodging as Blackbeard whistled a blow overhead and throwing all his weight into the next. Blackbeard's shirt was getting steadily redder, but he was more than enough of an experienced brawler to compensate for minor disadvantages like a bullet wound. The edge of his blade flashed and sheared, and it was Flint's turn to grunt, a long, shallow gash ripped in him from collarbone to third rib.

Blackbeard's rooting section got their chance to cheer at that, as Killian went tense all over; no matter what it took, he was not letting Flint lose this fight, and their chances of saving Sam to vanish in the ether. It was getting more and more bare-knuckled by the instant, Flint down on one knee to block and then up again, teeth bared. He brought a boot up, and as Blackbeard lunged for him, kicked his sword out of his hand, backhanded him viciously in the face, and as the older man fell heavily, bore down on him, merciless as a hurricane, for the coup de grace. Raised his sword, and –

Staggered himself, driven back on his heels, as a second blade got in the way, Vane flipped it to the other hand, took a better grip, and charged. A gasp went up from the entire beach at the sight of the two titans of Nassau, whose hatred for each other had never been any secret but who had always been restrained in one way or another from erupting into open warfare, finally going head to head, Vane launching a relentless series of blows that Flint, starting to bleed heavily himself and already winded from the first go-round, was having trouble knocking off as quickly as before. Meanwhile Blackbeard, bloodied and breathless, but not quite down, was struggling to his feet, fumbling for his sword, starting to run, and –

He likewise crashed straight into an unexpected second, as Killian braced himself, hauled off, and took the full brunt of Blackbeard's blow on his sword, shivering down into his arm and all the way up to his shoulder. It was the first time he had fought another man one to one since his injury, without a second hand to steady himself, and of course it would be this one, but he didn't care. Blackbeard was still off balance, and Killian brutally pressed his advantage with a lightning-fast series of blows; what with Flint and Vane still going hammer-and-tongs behind them, it had suddenly become a four-way free-for-all, and there was no guarantee that their respective crews were not about to start whaling on each other and turn this into complete red mayhem. Even Silver looked startled, fuck that slimy git, on how quickly matters had degenerated, but he had the sound good sense not to attempt to break up either pirate fight. Nobody could get in the way. Not until this was over.

Flint and Vane had dropped their swords by this point, both of them slashed and bleeding, and had each other in headlocks, wrestling and punching each other as hard as they could. Killian didn't let up on Blackbeard – _seasoned enough for you yet, bastard? –_ until he caught a hard parry, twisted it around, and disarmed the older man with a slash and a spurt of blood that had Blackbeard howling like a wounded bear. His sword tumbled into the sand as he clutched his wounded hand to his bloodied shoulder, swayed on the spot, and fell like Goliath.

At the same moment, Flint and Vane went to their knees, still mortally entangled, and there was a whoof and a grunt from Vane as Flint landed a final punch deep in the kidneys. He clawed at a fistful of Vane's dreadlocks, twisted them, and threw him flat, an elbow in his throat, eyes burning violent emerald, bleeding everywhere, heavy droplets splashing in the sand. "Yield!" he snarled. _"Yield, or I'll fucking kill you!"_

Vane answered that by spitting in his face, even as Killian was coming up fast behind them. Aimed, set, and fired, in terms of a kick to Flint's ribs hard enough to send him physically flying backwards. Flicked his sword to Vane's throat to prevent him getting up, as a ringing, terrible silence began to descend in the wake of the bedlam. Stood there in the rising sun, cold and calm and utterly implacable, Captain Hook still standing among the bodies of all his fallen competitors, waited until he could be quite sure everyone was listening, and spoke.

"So," he said. "We sail."


	31. XXXI

**-XXXI-**

Night fell on Antigua swiftly. The way the dusky sea turned dark, the shadows lengthened, the bloated golden sun dropped like a Spanish doubloon in the striated sky, the palm trees went still and the ships at anchor were transformed into stark black silhouettes – it was, Sam had to admit, quite beautiful. Perhaps because he was looking at every bit of it, impressing it on his senses, trying to recollect it perfectly. He had fixed other images in his head: his sisters at home in Devon, Mariah with her hair blowing in the wind on Cape Cod, the feel of the _Whydah_ beneath his feet as she took a good wave, Emma smiling at him as they sat stargazing on the sargasso sea, the stunned look on Killian's face after he had kissed him that night on Nassau. If he _was_ going to die tomorrow – and in all honesty, it was looking extremely likely that he would – Sam intended it to be in memento of a good life well lived, even if it had not been near as much time as he wanted. That, if nothing else, the evil bastards could never take away from him.

Not, however, that he was passively resigned to his fate. Gold, with ghoulish good cheer, had announced that they could at least grant a condemned man a fitting last night on earth, and if Sam should happen to feel himself burdened by something that urgently needed confessing, he could send for the St. John's parish priest. Sam, who as noted had an exceedingly low opinion of clerical hypocrisy, abuse, and greed, had been about to refuse out of hand. But it then occurred to him that there were ways to leverage this, and so he had told Gold to go ahead and fetch the priest after all, making it sound as if he indeed dearly wished to clear his conscience before mounting the steps to face the noose. Once the man got here, this evening would get interesting.

Sam rubbed his wrists, as the fetters had finally been removed, but he could still feel their weight. The trade-off was that he had been locked in a turret room of the governor's mansion like some princess in a fairytale, but that could be worked around. While it was more materially comfortable than the _Scarborough's_ brig, it had more than lost its charms in the interval of his confinement here, as he had been emplaced after a trial that could barely be dignified by the word "summary." Indeed, it had not even taken the morning. He was marched to the dock in chains, then asked to confirm that he was indeed Samuel Bellamy, late of Hittisleigh, Devonshire, and known pirate and traitor to the crown. He had greatly annoyed the pasty-faced ponce of a prosecutor in the bad wig by completely ignoring him, gazing ahead as if he heard nothing more than the buzzing of a fly, until, face now quite red, the prosecutor warned him that he could be convicted on contempt of court alone. With that, affecting to only just realize that he _was_ in court, Sam assured them that contempt was entirely what he felt, and congratulated them on their accuracy for the first time in their whole miserable misbegotten acquaintance. As for the charges against him, he had nothing to say. It was clear that they intended to hang him no matter what he did or did not do, so as far as he cared, they could get on their knees and suck him off right here. And it had better be good. He, unlike them, had standards.

That, to say the least, had not gone down well with the most honorable agents of His Majesty's Government in the West Indies, and after much banging of his gavel and shouting had failed to restore order on the benches, the judge informed Sam that very well, he was correct. For an incorrigible reprobate and hardened criminal with no apparent grasp of the severity of the charges against him or respect for the workings of justice in addressing them, he had no choice but to recommend a sentence of capital punishment. It was to be carried out contingent upon the return of the royal executioner from Barbados, where he had been performing his noble work after a series of slave revolts in Bridgetown. It seemed that news of Jamaica's unfortunate example was spreading, and one way or another, an example _would_ be made. And that, as Sam blew a sardonic kiss to the judge and was marched out by four of doubtless the bravest and stout-hearted redcoats the British Army had to offer, was how he had ended up here.

Tomorrow, then, was the appointed day. Sam could hear distant footsteps and voices from elsewhere in the house, and had seen riders constantly coming and going through the gates and down the darkening road. The execution of a pirate captain, after all, was a treat and a spectacle, especially with Antigua so sore over what Killian had done to them. The island folk would bring children and picnic baskets, push and jostle and gather early for the best view of the gallows, which were surely even now being hammered up at Fort Berkeley. They'd hang him over the burned harbor, just to make a point. Come for him in the wee hours, chain him up in a cart for the bumpy twelve-mile trip south, so people could line the road and gawk and throw rubbish. Fun for the whole family. Not to mention the attraction of his tarred corpse, which would be kept on display until sun and salt and seabirds reduced it to a leathered, weazened husk. _And the rest of my friends soon to join me, if they ever get hold of them._

Sam was just about to make the thirtieth pacing circuit of the room, not that it would do him much good, when there came a firm rap on the door, startling him. Then the bolt rattled, the lock clicked, it swung open, and a man in a cloak and the grey habit of a Franciscan friar stepped inside. "Captain Bellamy?"

Sam stared at him in suspicion and confusion. Franciscans were, after all, _Catholic,_ and surely the St. John's parish church was not subversively employing such an individual when they could have a starched, collared, frigid, sanctimonious Anglican vicar. Besides, the island authorities would never have permitted it, as it would be regarded as one step from open treason. Especially with England currently embroiled with the upheavals of the Jacobites and the question of whether a Catholic or Protestant would sit the throne, for a man to waltz into the governor's mansion dressed like this was either ludicrously brave or ludicrously stupid, or some flammable combination of both. Sam kept staring. "You're not the bloody priest."

"I doubt you were actually hoping to share tender reminisces with him." The friar seemed unruffled. "Likewise, you could confess to me, or you could hurry. We haven't much time."

"What? Are you – " The plan Sam had been cooking up did have to do with escape, yes, but he had of course assumed that the priest would not be a willing participant in this venture. "Are you saying that you're here to _rescue_ me?"

"That is the idea, yes." The friar pulled up his hood. "Questions later, Captain. Unless you prefer the governor's hospitality?"

"Not on your bloody life." Deciding on the spot not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Sam pivoted briskly on his heel, following the friar out, as the man pulled the heavy iron key out of his sleeve and locked the door again. They edged along the wall, doing their utmost not to step on a creaky board or be ambushed by someone coming down the hall at an inopportune moment, until they reached the servants' stair at the back of the house, which was narrow, even creakier, and constantly in traffic by the governor's minions. They had to wait just out of sight, crammed behind a closet, until a valet in an excessively powdered wig had rushed past – then, hearing no more approaching footsteps for the moment, elected to make a break for it. Pelted down as fast as they possibly could, and ducked into the maze of outbuildings behind the mansion, the kitchen and scullery and buttery and stables, keeping low and staying to the shadows.

After a few minutes of scuttling, they arrived at a half-open postern gate in the back wall, which must be how Sam's knight in shining habit had gotten through in the first place. They squeezed through, shut it – and then suddenly, they were outside the villa grounds, and broke into a run. Shortly thereafter, they reached a hidden spot on the headland, where they were greeted by another man in a hood, in custody of a large, squirming sack that must contain the actual priest. At the sight of them, he raised a hand. "Captain Bellamy."

Sam, ever the gentleman, nodded cordially, even as he was justifiably given to wonder who the devil was mad enough to filch condemned pirates out from directly beneath the Navy's nose. "And you would be?"

The hooded man shot a glance at his other associate: a large, burly, curly-haired fellow with a crossbow. He stepped forward and administered a smart blow to the sack, which immediately stopped struggling. Then as he hoisted it up, apparently with the intention of returning the priest to his parsonage with only a splitting headache and no memory of what had happened, the hooded man said, "My name is Locksley. It appeared that you could use a hand."

"I could, quite." Sam surveyed him with burning curiosity. "You offered it why?"

Locksley hesitated briefly. "I am – well, I was – the castellan at Fort Berkeley. I helped Killian Jones escape, when the governor held him in bondage after he first – you know him?"

"Aye." Sam swallowed. "Aye, the man's a fine friend of mine. Has to be bloody dangerous, though, doing this on Antigua? Especially if you used to be one of them?"

"Best place to do it, I'd say." Locksley's eyes were fierce. "I was. . . encouraged to resign from my post due to the allegations of my involvement in the Jones scandal, none of which they could prove. Now I serve merely as a tavern-keeper, and you know how drunkards like to talk. Not that your arrival was any sort of secret. Tongues are wagging across the island. And you, I've heard of you. They call you the Robin Hood of pirates, don't they? The one who steals from those who deserve it, protects those who do not, and hurts as few as he can?"

"I – I try, yes." Sam was startled. He had chosen very deliberately to live his life as he had, and sometimes it either scarcely seemed worth it, or bordering on the terminally naïve, a dolphin in a sea of sharks. But nonetheless, he stuck firmly to his principles, even in the face of death, and expected nothing but ridicule for it; his stance certainly had seemed incredibly stupid to Eleanor. For that to matter to Locksley, for that to be the reason he saw it worthy to rescue him. . . perhaps, no matter what happened now, there was hope for the future, a few decent men in the world even outside of the pirates' republic, who could not all be swayed by Gold's lies and greed and manipulation. So, at least, Sam very much had to tell himself, or go mad.

"Well," he said. "I owe you my life, sir, and I am much obliged for it. But it's not quite saved until I can get off this island. I have reason to believe that company is on the way, but I'm not entirely sure when. Do you have a – ?"

"Aye, come with me, I'll hide you in my attic." Locksley tossed him a spare cloak, which Sam pulled on. "It'll not be the most comfortable, but it should suit."

They started down the road, trying to look like any other messengers out on the governor's business – as it was past dark, ordinary citizens were expected to be inside and off the streets. There was enough hubbub at the docks, as both the _Windsor_ and the _Scarborough_ prepared to sail, that they might just be able to pass unremarked, but it was nerve-wracking for obvious reasons, and Sam could feel his heart pounding in his throat. If he could indeed make it to Locksley's, he might be safe – but for how long? The alarm would be raised that he had escaped before much longer, if they hadn't discovered it already, and Gold would spare no effort to recapture him – he might be derisive of Sam's place on the hierarchy of dangerous pirates, but that did not mean that he would suffer the embarrassment of losing his prize, especially after letting the Jones brothers slip through his fingers once before. He would order the redcoats to go door to door, search every house, and surely Locksley's, if he was already suspected of subversion in Killian's escape, would be top priority. No, it was too dangerous. Sam would have to find somewhere else to hide until the fleet got here, some cave in the interior, some –

"Locksley!"

They skidded to a halt, all their hackles rising, as a blonde man strode toward them from the torchlit quays – a man who looked like David Nolan down to every detail, but wearing the silver gorget of an Army captain, and without a coat either blue or red. Both of them recognized him at the same instant, and turned to further ice as a result. James Nolan. The brother who, as Sam had told Killian back in Boston, had turned out quite the opposite of his upright, rules-abiding, decent, honorable brother. Quite the bloody, _bloody_ opposite.

"Captain Nolan." Behind his back, Locksley frantically beckoned Sam into the shadows. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Can't a garrison commander pass the time of day – or night – with his old castellan?" To judge from the missing coat, the flush on his cheeks, and the glitter in his eye, as well as the slur to his words, Nolan had already passed considerable time in the company of several bottles. "Been wondering how you've been faring, since your dismissal. Settling down to lead a humble innkeeper's life, isn't it? So what business, exactly, does an _innkeeper_ have outside after dark?"

"Only a small errand, sir." Locksley's voice was cool. "Though I might ask the same of you."

James laughed. "Haven't you heard? My brother's in town. Perfect little Davie-Dave with his square jaw and his thumpingly craw-sticking self-righteousness. Can't a man pay a friendly fraternal visit? Him and the _Windsor,_ they're off to find that prick Jones. You remember him, don't you, Locksley? Remember helping him escape?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about, sir." Locksley remained utterly unruffled. "I'll bid you good night and be on my way."

"Oh, _no_ you won't." James grabbed his arm. "I know what kind of treasonous filth you are, Robin. You may have the magistrate temporarily bamboozled, but I know you did it. I know you let the Joneses go, in collusion with that brothel madam! Ruined any chance _I_ had of getting out of this stinking cesspit, while my fucking _brother_ gets to ride off on his white horse and take the credit for it! No, I tell you. No. I don't have to sit here and suffer it, and if you come to a sticky end out past curfew, I'd hardly expect anyone to go shedding any – "

As he went for his saber, and Robin raised his hands uselessly, Sam stepped out of the shadows and hit James very hard over the head with a broken bit of plank. Most unfortunately, however, while it dazed Nolan considerably, he was too drunk to know when he was licked, and he wheeled on this second attacker, stared, and snatched at Sam's hood. Sam clutched at it, but it was too late. Nolan got a good long look, eyes burning madly in his dead-white face, then bellowed at the top of his lungs, "TREASON! TREASON! TREASON!"

With that, he ripped out his sword, slashing madly, as Sam knocked it away with the splintered end of the plank. Shouts were starting to spread, a ship's bell started to clang, and James shouted again, "TRAITORS! TRAITORS ON THE DOCKS! TRAITORS ON THE RUN!"

Robin dove in search of a weapon, any weapon, as Sam parried Nolan's frenzied, bull-rushing blows with the board, which was taking quite a punishing. Then over his adversary's shoulder, he saw a familiar face burst into the torchlight: Captain Josiah Hume, musket in hand. In that moment, Sam thought madly of Hume swearing that both he and David Nolan were going to die, the fact that a shot in this chaos could hardly be traced to one man, and that in Hume's mind, if the _Windsor's_ captain should just happen to fall in a tragic accident –

"Get off me, David!" Sam shouted, as loudly as he could. "Turned against me too, you good-for-nothing – you _were_ helping me, weren't you, but you're a faithless – "

He saw confusion and fury in James Nolan's bloodshot eyes. Felt, for half an instant, utterly and unbearably guilty. Then there was a flash, a boom, and James stumbled, blood and brain spraying from where the musket ball had taken him in the back of the head. Staggered, slumping against Sam, then went down hard on the cobbles, sword clattering out of his hand. Shuddered once more, gasped something incoherent, and died.

Sam collapsed against the harbor wall, feeling bile burning his throat. Even as Robin managed to snatch up the dropped sword, it was, both of them knew, too late. Reinforcements would be there within instants, and the hangman would have two pairs of boots to dangle instead of one – but there was still one mad gamble, one last trump card to play. Sam lifted his eyes to Hume's and breathed, "Bet you didn't know that David Nolan had a bloody twin brother, did you? An Army captain? And that that was the one you just shot?"

"What?" Hume still had the smoking musket to his shoulder, with a breathless, vicious expression of triumph, but at that, it flickered. "What the devil are you talking about?"

"James." Sam indicated the fallen corpse. " _James_ Nolan. Not quite the same thing, I'm afraid."

"Wh – " Slowly, as the horrible realization came over him, Hume's face turned sallow. "What – you said – I bloody heard you say _David_ , that he was a traitor, that he – "

"Yes." Sam bared his teeth. "You did hear me say that, didn't you? Quite loudly?"

"You – " Hume looked wildly back and forth. "You traitorous, whoring Belial – as if what you've done to me already wasn't enough – nobody will believe you, nobody – "

"So we're here again, aren't we? My word against yours that you've committed a hanging crime? I wonder if the Admiralty will excuse you so easily this time?" Soldiers were starting to appear on all sides, and Sam raised his hands, still grinning. As he and Robin were clapped into cuffs, he shouted, "Ask Captain Hume about what happened to Captain Nolan, there! It's a fascinating tale, believe me! Ask him just why he'd think to shoot the man!"

"You're dying tomorrow, Bellamy." Hume's eyes were almost blind with hatred. "Be very certain that I'll be first in line to piss on your corpse. Even that won't put out the fires of hell."

"We'll have to compare notes." Sam swept him a sarcastic salute with his chin, as his hands were currently out of commission. The soldiers began to march him and Robin away, out of the torchlight, away from the docks, to wherever they were going to spend their last night on earth after all. So, then. He'd tried. He'd done his bloody best. But in the end, it had not been enough, and he was going to get another good man killed alongside him. Until, even as he prayed they could not see, silent tears began to track down Sam's cheeks in the darkness, and all he could taste in his mouth, all he could hear in his head, was salt, and rushing, and screaming.

Neither of them slept.

They sat in silence in the frigid, foul cell, chained to the wall, hearing the scuttling of rats in the dimness and the distant shouts of the other prisoners, both deploring the immovable passage of time and praying that it would stop altogether, that the morning would never come. Until Sam said quietly, breath billowing silver in the cold, "Christ, I'm so bloody sorry."

"Don't be. I made my choices." Robin's head turned toward him. "I wish I could have gotten you away. I'm sorry too."

"You did more than you ever had to." Sam swallowed. "Makes you bloody wonder, does it? If what we do matters, if we've chosen not to play by their rules, and we end up here for it, on the gallows tomorrow? I would like to say it does, but. . ." He looked down at his chained wrists, a wave of grief crashing over him until he almost couldn't breathe, until he just wanted to lie down quietly in this miserable dank hellhole and have it over. "As I said. I wonder."

Robin considered that. "So do I," he admitted at last. "It would be foolish to say that the good men win in this life, when it seems that all they are is prey for the evil ones. But I knew Killian Jones, even if briefly, and his brother. That was why I decided to risk getting them out, away from here. No matter if he's turned pirate, I doubt he'll stop until the work is done."

"Aye." Sam's voice caught in his chest. "I hope they all do. Him, and Emma, and Flint, and Miranda, and Will, and – "

"Will?" Robin looked up sharply. "By any chance, Will _Scarlet?"_

"Aye. He's been with us, he's a good lad. I take it you know him?"

"Raised him as my own son." Robin likewise seemed briefly unable to speak. "He ran off to join the pirates a while ago. I thought – well, I always wondered, I. . ." He stopped. "Well, at least I did find out, eventually. Before I. . . before."

Sam nodded. The silence returned to creep between them, the distant dripping of water.

"Are you a religious man at all?" Robin asked, at length. "If you did have anything you wished to confess. . ."

Sam laughed, hollow and humorlessly. "Nothing I'd say to some fat squab of a priest. You're the one who larks about with Franciscans, perhaps you have a vested interest in my conversion? By the church's rules, I know where I'm destined, and it is not for the shining city. I believe in no god that is worshiped and feared by the world I left behind. In good and evil, yes, and in the choices we make, and the consequences we merit. But if there's some old man in a cold hall weighing us mercilessly and finding us wanting. . . that sounds very like the Admiralty to me, or any other corrupt court's bench. And if nothing else, I should hope, no matter what the Admiralty may think of themselves, that the Almighty is nothing in the least like them."

Robin glanced up with a sad smile. "Indeed."

"I've done things I regret," Sam said. "To be sure. None of which, however, are the ones the church thinks I should, if I want passage to their better place. They can keep it."

Robin looked as if he was going to say something to that, but did not. The night continued to while away, the soft rasp of sand in a glass, as exhaustion won out and Sam dozed fitfully, but never quite fell all the way under. He didn't want to waste it, didn't want to be taken off guard, and he was the first to stir when he heard footsteps coming, the tramp and flicker of torches in the early morning hours. He reached out as far as he could to kick Robin, who also startled awake. Thus they were both prepared, cool, and stony-faced when the soldiers arrived, grinning with obscene anticipation. "Ready to die today, traitors?"

Neither Sam nor Robin deigned an answer as they were hauled out, marched to the cart, and chained in, wrists lashed to the heavy wooden yokes across their shoulders. They were forced to kneel in the straw as the oxen were hitched up, the driver climbed into the seat, and they rumbled out onto the southern road. There was, Sam supposed, still technically time for a miracle – but any man who took that wager would make the beggars happy, when they were fighting for the coins that had spilled into the mud beneath his corpse.

They rattled and jolted over every godforsaken rut and pit, as the island folk pointed and gawked and jeered at them as they rolled by. The scandal was magnified by the presence of Robin, who had evidently been well-known in his long-standing capacity as Fort Berkeley castellan, and which doubtless gave Gold a fittingly _golden_ opportunity to moralize about the difficulties of ever really knowing your neighbors or their loyalties, and that if anyone knew someone who might have treason brewing in their hearts, no matter how law-abiding they looked, now was the time to cough it up. Indeed, Sam almost thought that they were throwing more stones and filth and rotten vegetables at Robin then they were at him. A pirate captain was a savage and could not be expected to know any better, but Robin, who had lived on Antigua for so many years and in the closest contact with His Majesty's Government, had no excuse. _Or perhaps the best of all, but you bastards wouldn't bloody think that, now would you?_

The sun was well up, the day warm and clear, by the time they finally rolled through the gates of Fort Berkeley to an ominous tattoo of drums. The gallows stood in the bailey, still smelling of fresh-cut wood and pitch, and Sam hoped that they had remembered to oil the ropes. A new rope, or an incompetent executioner, didn't break a man's neck on first drop, and instead just ignominiously choked him bit by bit. It was a slow, hideous, messy, excruciating way to die; even if you were resolved to do so with dignity, the natural responses of your body wouldn't let you. Made you jerk and kick and twist and shit yourself, eyes bursting, face purpling, blood and spittle, until the end came as sweet relief. Not that Gold likely had any intention of letting them have a noble death, which might rouse public sympathy. All Sam had left was one wild, desperate stab in the dark, and if that bought them nothing, they were done.

The drums continued to beat as Sam and Robin were manhandled out of the cart, had their yokes removed, and were left in their fetters, wrists and ankles. Sam's eyes swept the crowd feverishly. David Nolan was not there, not that he expected the man to be daft enough to try to stop this single-handed, or want to watch him die. Hume would not have missed it for the world, so he had to be here somewhere, but Sam didn't see him. Hornigold certainly was there, smirking insufferably, as was Gold, wearing his best brocade coat and lace jabot, hair sleekly queued back. The Fort Berkeley redcoat garrison, minus its late captain, was stationed around the perimeter, holding back the jostling crowds and preventing any more last-minute rescue attempts. If they felt any flicker of sympathy for Robin, so long one of their own, or if they were convinced that he had chosen his own fate, it was impossible to say.

At a signal from Gold, Sam and Robin were marched up the gallows to where the hooded executioner was waiting, and an extremely haughty Army lieutenant stepped forward to read the warrants. By order of Lord Robert Gold, Governor of the Leeward Islands and faithful servant of King George of Hanover, rightful and Protestant ruler of Great Britain and Ireland, Samuel Bellamy and Robin Locksley were, for treason and piracy and conspiring to aid and abet His Majesty's enemies both great and small, sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead. If either of them wished to repent, and have any hope of facing the dread judgment of the Lord cleansed of the guilt of their wicked lives, now would be the time.

"I do." Sam's voice was not as loud as he wanted, and he cleared his throat and tried again. "I wish to confess my crimes to the public, and be heard by all. I do have that right."

Robin shot him a confused look, clearly wondering why he would have decided on it now if he had turned down the offer last night, but Sam shook his head minutely, and Robin caught on that he should not interfere. Gold looked briefly surprised, and perhaps a touch uncertain, but it was quickly replaced by his usual urbane expression. "Indeed, Captain, so you do."

"Thank you." Sam smiled, straightening his shoulders. "I confess that I am, as charged, a pirate. That I turned pirate of my own free will after leaving HMS _Windsor,_ that I have sailed as a pirate ever since, captained my own ship, and led others to turn to piracy alongside me. But I would also confess the greatest reason that I had for doing so, and leave it to the wisdom of this august assemblage to decide if there is perhaps not another man who bears the blame. I accuse, in this place and by the oath sworn by Captain David Nolan in Admiralty court eight years ago, the captain of the _Scarborough._ I accuse Josiah Hume."

There was an aghast murmur as Gold took a step, plainly about to decide that Sam had confessed bloody well enough and it was time to shut him up, permanently. But the plump little man next to him – to judge from his gaudy tat, Commodore Hamilton, fleet commander of the Royal Navy in the Caribbean – caught him by the sleeve. "What's this about Hume?" he said in an undertone. "I was assured that that matter was nothing, and it had been settled."

Gold opened his mouth, but Sam bulled forward. "Captain Hume shot James Nolan on the docks last night. And why? Because he thought he was his brother, David. Because Captain Hume has harbored a most personal animus for the pair of us, since what he did to me as a second lieutenant aboard the _Windsor._ I do accuse him of rapine and sodomy, inflicted on me grossly and repeatedly over a period of three months, and which would not have stopped save for the intervention of Captain David Nolan. He risked his career and his reputation to protect me, but the Admiralty took Hume off the _Windsor_ and promoted him to captain of the _Scarborough_ instead. Is this justice, even in your bloody blinded blinkered notion of it, my lords? That such a man should be rewarded for his misdeeds, rather than punished? That even among you who have made brutality such a perfected practice, such a way of life, there is no tiny flickering hope of rightness or probity? Is there no decency in you? Is there no sanity? Is there not a single human emotion apart from corruption and greed? _Is there no decency?"_

His voice thundered out over the suddenly stone-silent bailey, as the soldiers shot a frantic look at Gold, warning him that if he let Sam keep talking, stirring the masses with rhetorical fervor, there might be serious danger of a riot. Commodore Hamilton looked whey-faced, though it was difficult to say why – the accusations laid on Hume, the fact that they had let the pirate get this far, or the fact that his carefully staged show was not going according to plan, it could be any or all. Robin looked as if he was biting his lip so as not to cheer, even as the executioner was on the verge of taking matters into his own hands. He stormed forward, pulled the noose down, and looped it around Sam's head, drawing the dead man's knot snugly against the back of his neck. But he didn't quite dare to pull the lever without Gold's say-so, and the governor still seemed slightly at a loss. Perhaps he had already heard something of the sort insinuated from David Nolan; he had certainly not shied from implying to Hume that he was in possession of all the sordid details. This could not possibly be new information, but perhaps he had not expected Sam to air it so publicly, or to have no hesitation in doing so. But they were literally bloody about to hang him anyway, and while his desire for revenge might not burn as spectacularly as Killian's or Flint's, he had said quite clearly that he would take the shot at Hume if it came, and he was not going to die wishing that he had been brave enough to say it aloud. Not again. Not this time.

"Captain Hume," Gold said at last, breaking the spell. "This man lays most serious charges to your name – charges which, if proved, do carry the penalty of death. Do you dispute them?"

"I. . . I bloody well dispute them." At last, Hume made himself known from where he was standing in the crowd; Sam hadn't recognized him without his immaculate wig and his captain's coat and his sleek, smirking manner. He looked tousled and sleepless and staring, more than slightly mad. "My name was cleared to the Admiralty's satisfaction and then some, and nobody does themselves the least credit by digging up baseless old accusations on the word of a traitor and thieving reprobate who will say anything in hopes of saving his lying skin. Surely my lord governor and my lord commodore see this for the pathetic fallacy that it is. Please. Hang him. I have waited far too long to finally watch him die."

The executioner made a move for the lever, but Gold jerked up a hand. " Be that as it may, Captain Hume, James Nolan _is_ dead. We have witnesses apart from the pirate who attest that you shot him. Do you have an explanation for why?"

"This is absurd. Am I to be put to this kangaroo court of a trial? He's the condemned man. Not me. Ask your questions of someone who deserves them, not this – " Hume was nearly too angry to get the words out. "Very well, I shot James Nolan. I thought he was David Nolan, who had turned traitor on behalf of his dear old friend Sam Bellamy, and was assisting him in further sedition against the crown. It was an error and one I greatly regret, but no proof of my scandal or duplicity. The pirate himself confesses that they plotted against me! You'll get no satisfaction from trusting that one, Lord Gold. He'll turn on you too. Kill me too, if you think you have such proof of my crimes, but you'll still lose. Until you burn the rot out of the Navy, root and branch, and I am the only man who can do what needs to be done. Do not throw me away."

A faint smile crossed Gold's lips. It was impossible to say whether he actually believed this on face value – doubtful – but he was certainly canny enough to appreciate the value of a cruel and unscrupulous man with nothing left to lose. By letting everyone hear these accusations, he also built a measure of support for whatever he himself should next choose to do. Hume had been in the Caribbean long enough that most men knew him, and the more you knew, the less you liked. He had no wellspring of affronted friends to call upon, even if it was a pirate who was accusing him. Even if Gold chose not to believe it, there would be others less inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. If one, just one, dug into the case and decided to make him pay –

The world balanced on the edge of a knife, in one impossibly fraught moment, as Sam stood there with the noose around his neck and his gaze locked poisonously with Hume's, as even the seabirds circling overhead, knowing that there would be good pickings later, seemed to have stilled. Everything held its breath, unbearably, unending.

It was broken by a shout.

 _"Sails!"_

* * *

At least it had been a good wind from Nassau. That had been the one thing Killian most feared: that even after he had won the fight, cast the dice, ordered the fleet to sail and the chips to fall as they would, they would still be held at anchor by the one thing no one could control. But for bloody godforsaken once, there was a stroke of luck on their side. Indeed, the wind was so strong that the four ships had trouble keeping abreast of each other, some vestigial Navy instinct in him wanting to array them in a battle line, as the lighter, faster _Walrus_ and _Ranger_ kept running well ahead of the heavier, slower _Jolie_ and _Revenge._ At least Flint and Vane had not taken the opportunity (yet, at least) to open fire on each other directly, although they might have if they thought they could get away with it. Killian hadn't expected that Vane would agree to sail with them, but as ever, only Vane knew or understood what Vane would do. Perhaps if there _was_ to be a shootout with the Navy, he did not intend to be the only pirate captain who could not claim the distinction of being there, or perhaps he wanted to ensure that he could annoy Flint at close range and prevent him from having all the fun, or – well, the man had been a slave too, even if not to these masters. It could be that there was a genuine fire in his belly to see them suffer. At any rate, here he bloody was.

Killian leaned on the _Jolie's_ rail, thoughts drifting, as they did every five minutes, back to Emma. She, Miranda, Regina, Charlie, and Henry were sailing on the _Whydah_ to the Maroons' island, where he hoped Liam and the others would receive them into their protection and not hold his arse-up with Ursula too badly against him, though Charlie had insisted on staying with the ship when it turned south to join the others and rescue its captain. _If he's even still alive._ No, Killian could not let himself go there. He had promised Emma that he'd bring Sam back, alive and whole, to meet his goddaughter or godson. She just had to promise likewise to take care of herself (and maybe give Liam one extra punch from him, but gently, so it didn't break anything else on the old man). He knew she and Miranda would look after each other, and she'd have Henry too. Regina, well, hopefully she couldn't get into much trouble. (Much.) And last, Killian himself promised, and meant it when he promised, that he would come back. That he wouldn't try to get himself killed, or nearly allow it to happen as he had with Liam Junior, proper punishment for his crimes, but keep believing that he had a future, and that he deserved it. No matter how utterly black and bleak and rotten it so often seemed.

He turned away, reminding himself that he couldn't keep checking their bearings every hour, had to distract himself somehow. It was plain, and he was still getting used to the unsettling feeling of it, that being the last man standing on the beach had meant something, even if he was not sure what. Flint would never cop to following or respecting any man apart from himself, but he _had_ sailed on Killian's command, as had Blackbeard and Vane. Saving Sam could explain Flint's motivations, but not the others. That was different. He had won something strange and intangible, obedience at least and perhaps some tiny ounce of respect, some dangerous spot atop them all, when the only way any man got there was by scratching and clawing and doing whatever needs must. Killian hoped he was in the right in this, in whatever it would take to save Sam and put down Gold and company once and for all, but he didn't know. Didn't know how much Hook to give into was too much Hook to give into. He was tired, he was so bloody tired, and yet the war had only just begun. He had to find some strength, somewhere deep inside himself, and cling to it for all it was worth.

They sailed all day and all night with no respite, changing shifts around the clock and taking advantage of every bit of the wind while they had it. Killian was relieved to note that at least their repairs appeared to be holding up, as he had been afraid that they would get out into open water and then discover that some crucial leak had not been patched. Even his crew, gutted of the mutineers and still warily accepting the Maroons into its ranks, along with the sailors of the Dutch sloop who had signed on before Christmas, seemed to be more or less compliant. The only ones left, of the several hundred who had first followed him into piracy, were the true believers who would fight to the bitter end, and while it had been a brutal way to thresh the wheat from the chaff, he supposed it was better to know. Though he had opened the accounts book the other day, seen Hawkins' regimentally correct handwriting neatly totting up years of sums, and had to shut it again at once, feeling ill. He had wondered if there was any way to send money to Hawkins' widow and infant son in Bristol, but he didn't think so. No way, of course, from a pirate.

It was the morning of the fourth day, a nearly unprecedented record, when they sighted the hazy blue lines of Antigua ahead, and the shout went out to prepare for action. The _Scarborough_ at least was here, smart money was on the _Windsor_ down from Boston as well, and they might have been able to put together enough of the _Diamond_ or the _Jamaica_ post-Killian's raid on Kingston to draft them in for further backup. One had to feel at least somewhat optimistic about their odds with such impressive firepower among the pirate vessels, but no matter what, Gold would have a nasty surprise up his sleeve, would not risk being caught so off guard for a second time. If Jennings was here as well, he'd be champing at the bit to murder the lot of them; indeed, his only difficulty would be in deciding where to start. It was going to be a bloody, knock-down, drag-out mess of a fight, regardless of whether they won or lost, and they would have to lay it all on the line, yet again. At least this time, as he had been when he burned the harbor in heartbreak and rage and vengeance, he wasn't alone. Instead he was sailing in with – if not quite friends, at least allies. Commander of a pirate armada, girded for war.

After thoroughly scouring the horizon revealed no incoming ships, Killian scowled, considered, had his men signal to the others to keep their guns loaded and look sharp, but since they were not sailing directly into the teeth of a raging firefight, it made sense to collect themselves, take a moment, and hold a proper colloquy of war. This took place on the _Jolie's_ deck; Flint, Vane, and Blackbeard were all still considerably banged up from the duel, Blackbeard the most, and they looked slightly resentful when they arrived, but Killian ignored them. After all, the damn thing had not been his idea, and it was not his fault that they had seen fit to wreak such avoidable, self-inflicted damage on themselves before they even set out. _At which you're the bloody expert, Jones._ But at least they were here, even if they could not agree on what to do now that they were. Killian and Flint wanted to rescue Sam immediately, while Blackbeard and Vane saw much promise and pickings to be had in attacking St. John's directly. Taking down the very capital of Antigua itself, burning the governor's mansion – now there was a feat to sing of. If they should happen to cross the _Windsor_ or the _Scarborough_ on the way, even better.

Killian had to admit that there was a certain grim satisfaction at the idea of letting Blackbeard and Vane off their leashes to make life utter hell for Gold, even if he was less comfortable with exposing the entire civilian population of St. John's to such a brutal no-holds-barred fury. Still, at least it would keep them happy, as well as providing excellent distraction and cover for him and Flint to find and make off with Sam, and he was just about to reluctantly agree when they spotted a small boat on the water, coming quickly from the direction of the city. Killian shouted for his crew to get to the guns, but such a small skiff, handled by one man, was hardly a threat to four large and fully armed pirate ships. Whoever it was had to be completely mad, to sail into this lion's mouth alone, entirely at the mercy of whatever fiendish fate such monsters could serve up. Even if there was a ragged white flag run up on the bow, even if the man was –

 _Bloody_ hell.

The four pirate captains stared, united in their disbelief, as the skiff reached them, rocking and bobbing on the choppy winter water. The man slowly and deliberately raised his hands, even as muskets and pistols cocked with clicks and thunks across all four decks. "Please," Captain David Nolan said. "Let me speak."

"You." Flint looked as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh, or to try outdoing William Tell in marksmanship. David _had_ shot up the _Bathsheba_ in Boston and allowed Miranda to be rescued, after all, but before that he had been trying with great good vigor to shoot up the _Walrus_ first, and to say that Flint held grudges was like saying that he got out of bed and put on his trousers in the morning. "So you and your ship _are_ here. Did Gold send you to plead prettily with us?"

"Nobody sent me. Nobody knows that I came out. We don't have much time. They will sight you, if they have not already, and the alarm will spread." David's face was drawn and grim. "I had a hunch that you'd be coming. But they took Sam to the Fort Berkeley gallows this morning. You. . . you may be too late."

"No." Killian gripped the railing with his good hand, feeling the world starting to shift out from beneath him. "No. We can't be too late."

"So what?" Flint demanded. "You think that will induce us to – what, fucking turn around and sail home, after you vile stinking shits murdered him? We will tear this island apart stone by stone if you so much as – "

"I know." David's shoulders shuddered in a weary sigh. "And I can't let you do that. I can't permit St. John's and all its people – who, despite where they may happen to live and the authority they bend their knee to, are innocent – to be exposed to such violent plunder and slaughter. And I know that even the _Windsor_ cannot hope to outfight all of you together. It is just us and the _Scarborough,_ and Captain Hume. . . went to attend Bellamy's execution. Antigua is already scarred enough from what _you_ did, Jones. It can't hold against a second assault. So." He paused, gathering himself. "I'm here to offer you a deal."

Flint sneered. "You already said you don't have anything you can offer us, and you're one man against the beasts. That's what we are, don't you know? Monsters. Someone shoot this cowardly son of a bitch and let's get on with – "

Killian jerked up his fist. To David, very coolly, he said, "And you can offer us what exactly? _Mate?"_

David looked just as defiantly back at him. "Sam Bellamy's life."

The world shifted again, desperate and impossibly. "You said it was too late."

"I said it might be too late. But if they see you, if the alarm goes up, they'll have to halt the execution and defend the island instead – especially when they have the chance to capture _more_ pirates and make the event even more spectacular than originally planned. I can. . . I have an idea. At least two of you – " he cut his eyes pointedly between Killian and Flint – "used to be in the Navy. If I get you disguised as such, you have a chance to get into Fort Berkeley unnoticed and find Sam. In exchange, you call off any assault on St. John's or the rest of the island, and leave us tidily and unmolested. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"That's a fucking stupid deal," Vane rasped. "All that for one man's life?"

"I can assure you I'm not offering for any of your sakes. _Pirates."_ David threw a burning look at the lot of them. "If you don't want to agree, I obviously can't stop you. But – "

"We didn't sail all this way to leave as paupers, boy," Blackbeard interrupted. "And you're the new pissant they have commanding the _Windsor,_ eh? Someone give George King what he had bloody coming?"

"George King was a fool and a brute and we are well rid of him." David's voice remained expressionless. "I had no part in his crimes. And I think you know that there are very few other captains, if any, who would be out here to bargain with you. Aye or nay?"

Killian hesitated. Then he said, "Aye. But I'm warning you now. If Sam dies, Antigua burns. All of it. No quarter."

David's lips pressed into a thin white line, as if he was biting his tongue on all the things he would very much like to say in response to that. For a moment, Killian wondered if the man was trying to beguile him and Flint away to some conveniently secluded place, to put a bullet in their heads and thus write an end to the Navy's two most notorious and dangerous traitors. But he was in for a most unpleasant surprise if he did, and any chance to save Sam was one that had to be taken, and they still did not have time to haggle in exhaustive detail. Never blinking, never looking away, David said, "Very bloody well, then. Let's go."

That was how Killian Jones and James McGraw, who had once worn these with pride and honor, served conscientiously and well, and then shed them like snakeskin in the fury of betrayal and rose again as Hook and Flint, found themselves in the hastily stolen uniforms from the _Windsor,_ fighting a sense of surreality so profound as to be almost breathtaking. Perhaps they were both wondering if their entire pirate careers had been a long and highly colorized dream, and they might be about to wake up back in London. As if none of it had really happened.

Killian couldn't tie his cravat properly with one hand, so Flint did it for him, jerking it so tight that one might suspect he wanted to hang Killian instead. Even after so many years, he clearly remembered how to do it almost unconsciously, tugging the borrowed blue coat that was too tight over the shoulders and the boots that pinched in the toe. Both of them were on unbearable edge as they and David rowed the boat toward the hidden inlet on English Harbor. It still did indeed look very much burned, with only a few rebuilding efforts underway. The bells were ringing in Fort Berkeley above, sounding the alarm that the pirate fleet had been spotted, were coming, were coming, were coming. It was very unlikely that Blackbeard and Vane were going to constrain themselves for long, so if there was any chance of getting to Sam and preventing a bloodbath, they had to act and act now.

As they sculled toward shore, David said abruptly, "I met your brother in Boston, you know. Liam. He was trying to find you, to save you. Whatever chance I'm giving you now, it's for Sam, and it's for him. I always admired him, and for some reason, he always believed in you, even at your worst. I hope you'll keep that in mind."

Killian opened his mouth to answer, couldn't quite, and swallowed hard. Then the boat ground against the sand, and he and Flint vaulted out, strapping muskets over their shoulders. It was mostly for show on Killian's part, as he also couldn't fire it one-handed, though he might be able to crack a man's skull if he swung hard with the butt-end. Then with barely a glance back, or word spoken, they started to run.

They pelted up the steep, muddy road toward the fort, even as Killian had to keep fighting waves of déjà-vu, how he had come here with Liam right after their first arrival in Antigua, to meet Robin Locksley and hassle over resupplying the _Imperator._ He was even wearing much the same clothes that he had been that time, until he wondered if part of him _was_ hoping that this was just a dream and he would have the chance to do it over again, to not make all his terrible mistakes. At least their disguises were working, though of course neither of them had had time to shave and were much scruffier than your average Navy officer – that, however, would just have to be judiciously overlooked. Nobody was likely to stop them to complain about their personal hygiene in the middle of an island-wide emergency, after all. They just had to get into the fort. Please. Please. Please let it not be too late.

They ran beneath the portcullis just as a detachment of redcoats were stampeding out, careened into the courtyard – and saw Sam Bellamy and, speak of the absolute devil, Robin Locksley standing on the gallows with nooses around their necks, fettered and filthy but still alive, left to wait, just as promised, while the larger crisis was attended to. Killian's heart turned over in his chest, a great shuddering gasping leap, as Sam's eyes swept madly across the chaos – until they locked onto him and Flint in their stolen Navy uniforms. There was a moment of crackling silence, impossible disbelief, and then his mouth moved, shaping around three words, all of which Killian could read very clearly. _What. The. Fuck._

That was an excellent question, which would have to be answered much later. Killian and Flint sprinted up the gallows, as Killian began to work madly on the rope around Sam's neck and Flint tried to loosen Robin's – the knots were tight and well-twisted, and they couldn't get headway. Flint ripped the bayonet off the musket and sawed at the tough hemp, while Killian pulled his hook from the jacket pocket and tried to tug the noose apart without nicking Sam. Finally it gave an inch, then two, scraping his fingers raw with oakum, until he worked enough slack to slip it up over Sam's chin and off. "Jesus," he gulped. "Jesus bloody Christ, don't ever – "

Sam said nothing, simply turned his head and kissed Killian thoroughly and ferociously, then whirled to help Flint with the final heave on Robin's. It came loose, and the four of them jumped off the gallows platform into the mud. Prepared to break into a mad run for it, then –

A shot thundered in the close quarters like a bolt hurled by Zeus, momentarily deafening them. They stood there, and kept standing, dazed. Then Robin looked confused, pressed a hand to the spreading red stain over his heart, and went to his knees. Swayed slightly, and fell.

 _"No!"_ Sam lunged for him. "Fuck! Fuck, Robin, no, don't – "

"Oh, yes." Someone moved, stepped out. Captain Josiah Hume, though Killian barely recognized him, gun in hand. "Payback for your bastard's trick with James Nolan, Bellamy – how do you like it? There are still two executions scheduled for today, after all, and I intend to see that they are carried out come hell or high water. His was quick. Yours will be slow."

Sam was on his knees, Robin's head cradled in the crook of his elbow, as Robin struggled to say something, but couldn't speak through the blood. To Killian's ears, it sounded rather like "Will." Then Robin sighed, eyes fluttering closed, and almost softly, almost simply, he was no more.

Sam opened and shut his mouth in stunned, wordless shock, and in that moment, Killian could see with awful clarity that Hume, at last, had won. That he had finally gotten to Sam, broken him, destroyed his strength and his defiance, reached the part of his inner soul that Sam had so fiercely kept him out of. It was truly horrifying to witness, as Sam was their moral compass, their lighthouse, the one who was strong for them when they could not be, and when his head came up, it was with the flames of hell burning in his face, stark and beautiful and terrible. He laid Robin down gently, then rose to his feet. "You," he said, in a voice that did not sound in the least like his, but as the very Devil Himself. "You're going to pay for that."

"Am I?" Hume grinned. "I told you that back on the _Scarborough_ after you spat in my face, remember? Wish you hadn't disrespected me so much as you did? Are you or your filthy friends going to slap me on the wrist again, or do you have some other, more fitting punishment in mind? I'm sure you've thought of it. Come on. Have a go."

Killian reached out and caught hold of Sam's arm, which was hard and unyielding as a block of granite. "Sam," he begged. "Don't. Bloody hell, don't. I fell into the darkness, because I'm not as strong as you – but you can't. Not you. You're the best of us. Don't let this man destroy your light, your soul. He doesn't deserve that power. You know he doesn't. You told me yourself. Sam, listen to me. Listen. He's just a man. You already beat him."

Sam remained silent, trembling like a spooked horse, eyes fixed on Hume with anguished, impossible loathing. It was clearly taking every fiber of his being and then some to stop himself from tearing out Hume's throat on the spot, to give into the howling darkness that so badly wanted him, to turn the loveliest angel into the cruelest demon, to prove its point about its own inevitability and inexorability, that there was no purpose in fighting back when it would always win in the end anyway. The struggle was nearly cosmic, shaking the very foundations of the world. Then, barely above a whisper, Sam breathed, "Fuck you."

Hume's smirk widened. "Missed me, did you? Want once more, for old time's sake? Or – "

And at that, there was the sharp, flat crack of a second gunshot. It was Hume's turn to look confused, as he reached a hand to his chest, touched the spreading red flower – then looked back at them, and at Flint, who was pointing the smoking pistol. "You fucking pirate whoreson," he managed, sounding almost impressed, as he went down like a foundering ship. "You – "

He didn't get a chance to finish his last words, because Flint pulled out another pistol and shot him cleanly through the head. Hume toppled like a colossus, facedown in the mud, blood spreading in a crimson tide, as Killian and Sam observed in an utter trance. Flint likewise seemed completely mesmerized, in thrall, barely breathing. Then at last he looked up. "Jones is right," he said. "You shouldn't have to fall into the darkness and murder the fucking bastard. Well. I'm already there. I'm more than happy to do it for you."

Sam looked at him with something that was impossible to put into words, that nearly burned the air between them, which Killian felt as tangibly as a bonfire. Then after a split second more, Sam nodded, spun on his heel, and beckoned them. They had no time, could not do anything more for Robin than leave him where he had fallen, as Killian pulled off the ill-fitting Navy jacket for the very last time, covered his face with it, and mumbled some fragment of a half-remembered prayer. Then, like nothing else, they ran.

Killian, Sam, and Flint plunged down the road, Sam lagging because of his chains, until they reached the blacksmith on the docks, darted in, and with Flint holding a gun on him and looking his most terrifying (which, given what he had just done, was not at all difficult) induced said blacksmith to remove said chains posthaste. Then they hurtled to the boat, which David had left waiting for them; he himself had doubtless gone to defend the island with the others, had made his bargain but would not cross the line into open desertion, would not be like them. No matter. They jumped in, Flint and Sam started to row like madmen, and they veered out into the water, the world coming apart at the seams around them.

As they rounded the spur of the coast, the first thing Killian heard was the boom and roar of cannons, and his heart seized up. They were too far out to be sure, but he could quite well guess what was going on. Supposing either that Sam was dead, or seeing no reason to keep their word to some Navy lickspittle who would betray them first, and having already made their disagreement fully known, Blackbeard and Vane had decided to open the attack on St. John's. After all, they would be thumping fools not to. David had already told them that it was barely defended except by the _Windsor_ and the _Scarborough,_ and as the latter's captain had just been killed, even if they did not yet know it, that further tipped the odds. They had absolutely no reason to sail away and leave Gold still in a strong position to attack them. None whatsoever.

Flint, picking up on this, aimed a searing look at Killian. "So much for controlling them."

"I. . ." Killian had no idea, no _bloody_ idea, what to do. As noted, it made all the coldly logical sense in the world to let Blackbeard and Vane blast the city into further smoking ruins. After what he had done to this bloody place before, as well as to Kingston, Killian was the last man in the world who had any moral standing to call them off, and he himself had warned Nolan that if Sam died, the island burned. Flint wasn't going to stop the _Walrus_ from joining in, and there were plenty of men on the _Jolie –_ all the old Navy sailors – who would relish getting a more personal crack at their own revenge. It was like trying to stop an avalanche: there was no way. No way. It was as crashing and impossible and fatal as a very force of nature.

And yet. And yet. If there was one thing, _one_ thing, one godforsaken thing that Killian Jones was good at, it was setting his mind to whatever he had decided must be done, and seeing it through absolutely no matter the cost. This was not about pirate or Navy, or one side versus another, or about defending the islanders how little they might deserve it, or anything besides choosing, in the end, what sort of man he wanted to be. Whether he was content to turn a blind eye and say there was nothing he could have done to stop it, or if – no matter the cost, no matter the pain – he wanted to stand up, one last time, and make a different choice than he had before. Save the people of St. John's, or let them die. That simply.

He looked over at Sam, and saw the exact same thought in his eyes, the exact same struggle, the weariness and disbelief. That they should have to put their necks on the line for people who would hang them sooner than thank them, who would have absolutely no charity to spare for being saved by pirates from pirates, that they should have to protect _Robert Gold,_ of all the fucking people, from getting his extremely just desserts. Both of them would be entirely justified if they did nothing, after all. If that was the choice they wanted to make, after how close they had come, or had, to falling into the darkness. It could be done. It could be.

It could be.

But – as before, as always – it _was_ their choice.

After a long, terrible, impossible moment, Sam said hoarsely, "Aye. I'm with you."

"What?" Flint looked absolutely incredulous. "What the _fuck?_ No! Let them burn the fucking place, it's the entire reason they came along! We can sail away and leave them to it, collect some other good score, get back alive. They deserve to die! All of them deserve it!"

"No." Sam rubbed a hand over his face, barely keeping his composure. "I don't want to be them, James. You have your own ship, you can go if you want to. Nobody's asking you to stay."

Flint opened and shut his mouth, looking between them, almost uncertain. Killian could tell that there was an almighty struggle going on inside him – whether his love or his hate was stronger. His love for Thomas Hamilton and for Miranda and for Sam, whatever good man he used to be, whether he was still in any way that idealistic young lieutenant who had proposed the universal pardon for piracy, whether he believed in anything more than just burning the world down. His hatred for – well, that was bloody obvious. Had spent these ten years living in it, driven by it, barely breathing, barely stopping. At last he said, "That is the stupidest fucking idea I've ever heard. You'll both get yourselves killed. Whether by them, or the bloody Navy, or Gold, or –"

"So." Sam looked at him levelly. "If that's what you want. Go. Unless you want to fight alongside Blackbeard, the man who challenged you for command, and Vane, your – you bloody well know what Vane is to you? As I said. Nobody's stopping you. Leave."

Flint was utterly silent for a long moment, as the cannons boomed again and the flash from the horizon painted his craggy, weathered face half in fire and half in abyss. He looked as exhausted as them, or more, fists clenching on his knees. Then he said, "Fuck you."

"Oh, believe me." Sam grinned. "Later."

* * *

The _Jolie_ and the _Walrus_ were not evenly matched – the former carried far more guns, the latter was much faster – but they ran together nonetheless, into the smoke and din and tumult of St. John's harbor, where the _Ranger_ was engaged in a furious dogfight with the _Windsor_ and the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ was bombarding the city with methodical, merciless volleys. The _Scarborough_ was there, but as its captain had not returned – nor would he, ever again – it was still moored at the quay, confused and anxious and awaiting orders, utterly frozen in the heat of the moment and unsure what to do or where to go. Doubtless David Nolan would have bloody appreciated it if someone got up the initiative to sail out and give him a hand, but his arse was instead about to be saved from an utterly unexpected quarter. Killian ordered the gunners to take careful aim – he didn't want to sink Vane, just to send an indisputable message – ready, and fire.

The _Jolie's_ bow chasers boomed, spitting smoke and thunder, and the _Ranger_ – which had, of course, expected that they were there to help – broke off in confusion and rage, giving the _Windsor_ a few moments to recollect itself. Meanwhile, the _Walrus_ was moving to block the _Revenge_ from getting a better bead on the landing, even as the waterfront was starting to throng with staring, stunned citizens. Far more than the fight itself, which was plenty spectacular, at least some of them must realize that they were being saved by more pirates, that the only reason the _Ranger_ and the _Revenge_ hadn't made it all the way ashore was because they were under friendly fire. _Not that any of you will be rushing to kiss our feet in gratitude._ Killian considered for a moment, glanced at Sam who nodded back, and they swung the wheel together, into the wind, as the _Jolie_ ran up hard on the _Revenge's_ port quarter. "You broke your word, Thatch!" Killian bellowed, over the roar. "Back off now, or you burn!"

It took a moment until Blackbeard appeared on the deck of the other ship, fully girded for battle with pistols strapped everywhere and fuses in his beard, prepared to be set alight and turn him into the burning demon. "Boy, if you think you can stop me now, you don't – "

"I won the duel!" Killian, leaving Sam to wrestle the wheel, turned to face him, drawing himself up. "I won the fucking duel! I beat you bloody! Sink the _Scarborough_ if you will, but try to attack the city, and I'll beat you again! This is your only fucking warning!"

Blackbeard stared at him, astonished and – ever so slightly – intimidated. After all, nobody ever presumed to do anything but run from him in terror, or at least come swiftly around to his way of thinking, and he unconsciously worked the hand that Killian had slashed, reliving that moment on the beach, of falling to a younger challenger, the man he had offered to adopt, to succeed him. Then he spun off, barked at the top of his lungs, and the _Revenge's_ entire port-side battery lit up like fireworks over Covent Garden, like breaking dawn, like the charge of the heavenly host at the Final Judgment. The _Scarborough_ veered, staggered, and began to take on water.

Blackbeard shouted again for a second volley, as fire was starting to lap along the docks, small figures running and shouting and jostling in panic. By similar expedients, the _Walrus_ had also wrestled the _Ranger_ away from trying a full-frontal assault on the city, though Flint assuredly had not stopped Vane from unloading a few vengeful shots in the _Windsor's_ direction. The _Scarborough_ was now sinking fast, so their visit had not been entirely wasted in terms of breaking Gold's power, and Killian and Sam stared at it together, the fiery wind lashing their faces like the breath of a dragon. Sam's hand shot out and clutched hold of Killian's, raw and fiercely, and Killian gripped back just as hard. Their hearts were racing, their eyes fixed, as they could hear the old world crumbling around them, and did not know what might be built in its place. Only that they had saved St. John's, and had no idea what they might have lost instead. That in this, in the inferno, in the maelstrom, in the madness, they had done what was right, no matter the cost. Come full circle, in Killian's case. Defended Antigua, rather than destroying it. That no matter how strong the darkness, and how tempting the fall, they had risen.

"And so," Sam said at last, in a hoarse whisper. "It begins."


	32. XXXII

**-XXXII-**

Early sunlight shone through the woven slats of the hut in pale yellow ribbons, catching a gleam on the beads hung from the drape that served as the door, and outside, Emma could hear the village rising. The distant sound of a drummer rose faintly but persistently over the usual morning clamor, deep and driving, rumbling and rhythmic and insistent, until she wished she knew what story it was telling or what warning it was whispering, the way the echoes ran deep in her blood, until she sat up, pushed off the coverlet, and climbed to her feet – which was getting to be a rather awkward business, considering. Miranda was still asleep beside her, hair loosed from its usual neat pins and tumbling in long, luxuriant curls, and the rising sun picked out more than a few deep streaks of grey, lying like coils of quicksilver among the mahogany. She sighed and shifted, but didn't wake, as Emma tugged the blankets back up over her, then pulled on a shawl, slipped on her boots, and emerged into the camp.

A few of the Maroons glanced at her as she passed, as they were certainly enough of a novelty to attract attention, but very few had broached any attempt to speak to them directly. Upon the women's arrival on the island a few days ago, Poseidon had agreed to take them in due to their being aboard the _Whydah,_ Black Sam's ship, which had been a joyous sight as the families rushed down to greet the freed slaves serving on his crew, and they delivered their shares of treasure. Yet despite Emma's last-resort attempts to persuade him otherwise, Charlie had obstinately refused to stay with them, and so she had watched her little brother sail away aboard a pirate ship, determinedly bound for whatever battle awaited the rest of them in Antigua. She had been both fiercely proud of him, and terrified until she couldn't breathe, furious at herself for failing. After all her work and all her sacrifice to give Charlie and Henry a better life, a safer life, far away from this world and its dangers and demons, it had still, in the end, come to this.

Now, Emma quickened her pace as she ducked into the palm grove on the far side, glancing warily for falling coconuts from above; one of those striking an unwary individual's skull at high speed could drop them as swiftly and grimly as a cannonball. She followed the narrow path through the verdant jungle undergrowth, to the place where the lookout opened up to a truly spectacular view of the harbor below, and there, as she thought she might, she found the drummer. The young man who seemed many thousands of years older, the vodou _bokor,_ someone at once both spiritual and sorcerous, the one the Maroons called (at least in their guests' hearing) Merlin. He sat cross-legged, eyes closed, playing intently, until at last, never opening them, he slowed the tempo and spoke above it. "Good morning, Emma."

She was rather taken aback, even as she was well aware that it was useless to ask how a conjure-man knew more than he should. "I – I'm sorry for disturbing you. I was just. . . curious."

Merlin smiled, half to himself, as he dropped his hands, put the drum aside, and beckoned her to sit next to him, at which she hesitated, then did so with a muffled grunt. Much as she disliked being kept from the action, there was something to be said for the difficulties of usual life while having just reached the seventh month of pregnancy, let alone trying to fight and sail and run and get into other high-exertion mischief. Merlin eyed her with a slightly amused expression, though it was more sympathetic than malevolent. "Should you be out so far, then?"

"It's not _that_ bad," Emma protested. "And as I said, I was curious. I've seen you watching me."

"Perhaps I find you interesting." Merlin leaned back against the rock. "The only female pirate captain in the Caribbean, yet one without a ship, and a lost girl without a home. You bear the hope of a new future, quite literally, yet it remains fractured, uncertain, barely grasped at. I am not the only one, you know. The loa find you intriguing as well. They whisper to me about you. Ask what you are doing. What you are meant for. Surely you did not merely intend to acquire a new ship and set back to your old life again? You and I both know that is not possible."

Emma was caught off guard, both by his gently probing questions and the way the morning light caught in his strange golden eyes, the color of good rum or a Spanish doubloon, a pirate's treasure in either case. "I – " she began, and stopped. "I don't know."

"We rarely do." Merlin shrugged. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. But you know that if there is any future, it is beyond this world, this life. The pirates can withstand – what, a few more years, if that, before England unleashes its full might and fury on them? It has already begun, and Nassau _will_ fall. I have seen it. A great fleet of white sails before the harbor, and a wall of burning ships. The man with the scar on his face comes with milk and honey in his mouth, and a poisonous sting in his tail. Your friends will die. Not on Antigua, perhaps, but they will. There is no winning this battle. It is beyond anyone's strength."

Emma felt as if she had been slapped. "You can't possibly know that."

"No," Merlin agreed politely. "Perhaps not. Everything can always be changed, of course. But this is not one that even I think has much chance of shifting."

"And even if so, then – then what? What do I do?"

"I don't know," Merlin said. "What do you do?"

Emma blew out a frustrated breath. "That isn't very helpful."

"You were the one who came to speak with me, Emma."

"I. . . yes, I suppose. I just. . . even if that was true, this is – this is my family. I can't just take Henry and run away and leave them to their fate. I would have thought about it before, believe me. I _did_ it before, with Killian. But I can't. I don't want a future by myself. I don't want to be alone again."

Her voice was raw and rough, catching in her throat, and she swallowed hard and had to look away, as Merlin tactfully pretended not to notice. She tried and shuddered to even imagine a life without Killian, Sam, Miranda, Flint, Will, Anne, Billy, and all the others, whom she had come to rely on so deeply and to believe that, in whatever way they were capable of, they would be there for her if she needed them. Even the upsets and wildcards (such as, say, Blackbeard and Vane) that inevitably came with this world were not enough to destroy her essential trust in it, her comfort, her knowledge of what it was and how it worked. So. . . what? Run away from it to live, or stay behind to die? _It's not fair. It's not_ fair.

"I'll think about it," she said at last, when the silence had stretched on. "I – I also think I should get back. To the camp. I. Well. Thank you."

Merlin inclined his head, clearly sensing that he had pushed her far enough for the moment, and understanding that this was by no means an easy thing to hear or swallow. "As you will, Emma."

She nodded back, then hauled herself to her feet and made her way back in considerable distraction, finally emerging into the clearing and crossing to the hut. Miranda was awake, tidily folding up the blankets and mats of their bed, and she glanced up at Emma's entrance. "There you are, my dear. I thought the child might have woken you early, or you wanted to – is something the matter? Emma?"

"I. . ." Emma twisted her fingers together, unable to entirely articulate the depths of her disquiet. After all, Merlin had not necessarily told her anything that she had not already suspected, all the times she had told Flint that building Nassau into its own little kingdom was an impossible pipe dream that would founder on the rocks of reality, of the bitter hatred that the Crown had for them, the sworn enmity of men like Gold and Jennings and Hume to destroy them at any price. Yet there was something different about hearing someone else say it, to make it real, to push it past the theoretical into the place where it could no longer be denied or brushed off or salted away. With that, despite how very much she did not want to, she sat down and told Miranda what Merlin had said to her.

A faint frown appeared between Miranda's brows, her face considering and solemn, when Emma finished. "Well," she said. "That is certainly not the best of omens, nor the most hopeful of futures – though, as you said, surely no surprise? And only a possible outcome, not yet a certainty. Still, though, it cannot hurt to plan for what we would do if it did come to pass. We would have to first secure you a pardon, which would be easier to come by for one of your sex and condition than it would be for a man. The quickest way would be through Lord Archibald Hamilton. If the rumors of the Jacobites' defeat at Sheriffmuir are true, things are about to get _quite_ uncomfortable for him, and he might well see a pardon for his old associate 'Emma White' as a small price to pay for the promise of protection from his gathering enemies. The pirate fleet could, of course, offer that. And then – "

"What? Go back to Jamaica? Miranda, no! You remember what happened the last time we went hat in hand to Lord Archibald – and then the time before that, for me! Nothing good ever happens when we go to Jamaica. It's usually completely terrible, in fact. If you think – "

"Lord Archibald has proven himself willing to pay off and do commerce with pirates." Miranda's voice remained level. "And indeed, if I recall, he was on the verge of accepting our offer of alliance, before Killian attacked the harbor. If we approached any other governor in the Indies, they would all run to report it straight to Robert Gold, and I needn't tell you how badly that would go. You certainly cannot set foot in the Americas without a pardon already issued, though you could get it notarized by one of the colonial governors, for extra security. Obviously, you cannot be put to the trial of a long sea voyage until the child is born, and there is no time to waste, so you would have to send me to Jamaica to negotiate with Lord Archibald on your behalf. As you will also recall, he is a cousin to Thomas. We know the same people, have the same strings to pull. I do think some sort of arrangement could be brokered."

"Miranda – I can't ask you to face that danger for me, I – "

"I _am_ a lady." Miranda looked at her wryly. "Rather soiled and tainted by years of exile and disgrace and connubial confraternity with a pirate captain, yes, but a lady nonetheless. I doubt there is a magistrate in the entire Caribbean who would dare to hang me, especially knowing the wrath they would call down on their heads from James if they so much as thought of it."

"Yes, but – I can't sail, as you said, and there is no other captain on the island – "

"Is there not? I can think of one. Who, indeed, has every incentive to see you safe."

"Wh – you can't mean Liam?"

"Who else? The man _did_ promise his brother that he would look after you, and I've heard he is recovered from his misfortunes – physically, at least. He is quite a fine captain, and he also has history with Lord Archibald. If a ship can be acquired, it would be a most suitable solution."

"Yes, but – " Emma wrestled for another excuse. She had avoided speaking directly with Killian's elder brother since their arrival, only catching brief glimpses of him and taking every opportunity for it not to be any closer. Perhaps she felt guilty, or perhaps she feared that he would ask about Liam Junior, or blame her for the whole sorry situation, or think that she had sent Killian to die – all accusations that she could not quite shake in her own head. Besides, Regina had rarely been far from his side, and Emma had noticed her slipping into Liam's hut late the other night. For Emma to ask him to take on a dangerous mission on her behalf, right under Regina's nose, when she had still not entirely gotten over blaming Emma for Daniel Colter's death and might well see this as an even more brazen attempt to thieve her second chance straight out of her hands. . . _awkward_ did not begin to describe it.

And yet, Miranda was looking at her expectantly. "Did you have another suggestion, my dear?"

"I. . ." Emma was once more at a loss. They could, of course, sit on their hands and do nothing, whistle past the graveyard and hope that Merlin's dread prophecy was mere stuff and nonsense, but that would be most unwise. "If we do, we have to ask for the pardon to extend to Killian as well. We have to."

"Ask Lord Archibald to pardon the man who destroyed his city, crippled his ships, broke his economic back, and made him a fool and a weakling in the eyes of the entire West Indies?" Miranda raised a gently but undeniably skeptical eyebrow. "We had better sail with the treasure of Croesus in our hold, if we wanted any prayer of that succeeding. I will do whatever I can, you know that. I can potentially get a pardon for you, so you could take Henry and this new child and build a life in Charlestown or Boston. The latter, I think – Charlestown fears and hates pirates too much, and a piece of paper would not protect you, if they learned who you were. In that case, I would most likely be able to come with you. But more than that, I cannot say."

"You would never go without Flint, though," Emma said. "You couldn't go to Boston with me and leave him and Killian here to fight until the bitter end."

"I would not want to," Miranda admitted. "Any more than you do. Yet there may come a point where, no matter how hard James and I have held onto each other for so long, it is time to let go. I will love him to my last breath and beyond. That is never in doubt. But if I have to come to Boston with you and the children, to try somehow to start again, then that is what I intend to do."

Emma opened and shut her mouth. She could not deny that the thought of making a new life in Boston with Miranda, rather than entirely by herself, was a cold comfort – at least considering that in this situation, both of them would be bereft of the loves of their lives and fleeing the total collapse of the pirates' republic, the downfall and ruination of everything they had fought and suffered for, the overthrow and death of everyone they knew and cared about. "Charlie," she said numbly. "We'd have to take Charlie – we have to get him off the _Whydah,_ Sam would make him return to me if I asked. We can't – "

"Your brother is a man, Emma." Miranda reached out to take her hand. "A young and reckless one, yes, but a man nonetheless, and he has made his choices. And I do not think that Sam Bellamy of all people would deny him that right. You have done everything you can. You have to let Charlie go."

Emma bit her lip, swallowing a lump in her throat. She stared down at their hands, the sunlight on the floor of the hut, the rustle of the reeds. Quietly she said, "I don't have to leave. I could fight – once the baby's born, I can still get a new ship and crew, join the battle. I could – "

"But when does it stop?" Miranda's voice finally cracked, turned rougher, exasperated and exhausted. "When does it _stop,_ Emma? I have spent the last ten years watching James fight like the Devil and nearly turn into him as well, fight with every waking moment and almost every sleeping one as well. For the longest time, I've wanted it as well, felt as if there was an abyss inside me that would not be satiated except by one more battle, hearing of one more ship that James took, one more cutting down the Union Jack to be stained in the blood on the boards. If anyone knows what it is like to feel that just one more fight will make the difference, it is me. That it will heal what is missing inside you, that it will atone for what has been done, by you or to you. What if I am tired of that? What if I want a life again, a real life, with art and beauty and books and music and poetry and _peace,_ a day when I can wake up and not wonder if this is the one where I lose everything? It is not a crime to want that. It is not selfish to dream of that. No matter what ultimately becomes of James, I have lost more of him to the demon than I can ever get back. For God's sake, for God's _fucking_ sake, don't make me lose you that way too!"

Emma was stunned, as Miranda had never spoken to her with such passion and anger and pain, finally letting down the demure and proper and kind veneer that she wore so elegantly, to bare the depths of her own damage. She knew that Miranda had increasingly tried to persuade Flint to consider giving up his endless vendettas, to be James McGraw for a little while again, to remember that he could save Sam but not Thomas, to think of the hope for the future that had, despite everything, been created when he asked her to really marry him and promised that he still meant it. Miranda desperately, desperately wanted to live out her days with the man who had been her husband in everything but name for ten years, but she no longer had the strength to share her bed and home and heart with Flint and Flint's demons alike. Wanted that particular third party to go, at last, and stay gone. And if they would not, for her own sake, she had to start wondering if perhaps she must consider moving forward alone. She had given everything she could and then some, had been shot and nearly died trying to save Emma's future, and yet might bitterly, coldly, finally have to accept defeat. After all these years. After everything. Emma could barely imagine the sheer, shattering agony.

"Miranda," she whispered at last, tightening her grip on the older woman's hand. "I'm sorry."

Miranda looked at her wearily. "I know what you are thinking. That if you did not fight until the trumpets of the Judgment, you would not have done enough, and your love would not have been strong enough to save Killian, and you would have failed, be unworthy and selfish and weak. I know, because that is how I myself thought for the longest time, with both Thomas and James. And yet it is not so, Emma. It is not right, and it is not good. I do not care what Holy Scripture says, and how men have twisted it for their uses. Woman was not made merely to slave herself into tribulation and tears and dust for a man who cannot help himself. Eve was the first to taste the Apple of Knowledge, you know. And her eyes were opened, and she knew that she was naked. I think of that ever more these days. Killian and Flint are both strong and brave, and they have their own choices to make, and you and I can and will love them until the end of the world and time. But if it is ultimately and terribly necessary, we should not be asked to sacrifice ourselves on their altars, to burn alive on their funeral pyres. If it is death in Nassau, or life in Boston, you know what we have the responsibility, the dignity, the _right_ to choose."

"I. . ." Emma had nothing to say to that. She reminded herself that they were, after all, making plans for the ultimate worst-case situation, that neither she nor Miranda would leave here if there was any hope of victory at all, and that Killian had promised her that he believed in his own right to have a real future. She knew that Miranda was by no means telling her to abandon that belief, or not to fight for him, but simply to accept that there was a world where that might not come to pass, and to be prepared if it did. It felt disloyal, as if even envisioning it meant that she thought it would happen, that she had no faith in being able to avoid it, but. . . having a pardon in hand, if it could possibly be secured, was simply the wise thing to do. It might not have to be used. Killian and Flint and Sam could still come home in triumph, having defeated Gold and broken the Navy's power for at least another year. There was still time to be bought. But at some point, there no longer would be.

"All right," she said quietly. "Let's go talk to Liam."

With that, once they had gotten properly dressed, they went out and down the row to Liam's hut, rapping pointedly on the wall before they ventured an entrance. There was a rather distracted-sounding answer from inside, though when Emma and Miranda ducked in, Liam and Regina were sitting at just enough of a distance to be clear that they had been quite a bit closer beforehand. Indeed, Liam's shirt was missing a button or three, his curls disheveled, and there was a color in both of their cheeks to make it less than scrupulously discreet about what exactly they had been up to, probably for most of the night and the one before that as well. Regina gave them both an extremely sour look, and cleared her throat. "Yes? Can we _help_ you?"

"I, ah." Emma shifted from foot to foot. "We were hoping to speak with Liam."

Regina huffed, but at a glance from him, got grudgingly to her feet, straightening her crooked corset. "Of course you were. Fine. Try not to take too long."

With that, she swept icily out, as Emma coughed and glanced back at Liam, who at least did not appear inclined to hold a grudge for her bad timing. "Cap. . . Captain Jones."

He regarded her inscrutably with those cool pale-blue eyes. "Captain Swan."

The two of them nodded at each other, as she hesitated, then took a seat on the cot at his gesture, Miranda perching next to her. The silence stretched almost to the uncomfortable, until Liam finally said, "Well?"

Emma coughed again. Telling Miranda had been one thing, but doing it with Liam was something else, and she shot a sidelong look at Miranda, hoping for help, which she gracefully provided. Omitting to mention Merlin's part in the affair, and making it sound merely as if this was a situation which very much did need to be planned for, Miranda floated the idea of the two of them making a trip to Jamaica, as soon as a suitable vessel could be located (or rather, seized). The Maroons did enough business with other islands, and had strongly built war canoes of the sort that Sam and friends had first used in their pirating ventures prior to capturing their own ship, that a smallish sloop or pinnace could likely be taken. Liam's lips went thin at the thought of acquiring a command by dishonorable means, especially since the _Jewel_ had been taken prisoner, crippled, and towed out after Killian's skirmish with its crew and shooting its leader, but it was also clear that nobody was about to sail up and conveniently inform them that they had a nice ship they no longer needed and would they like to use it, please and thanks. "To go to Jamaica?" He clearly remembered just as well how this had gone. "Are you sure about that?"

"We need to achieve a pardon for her if it is at all possible, yes." Miranda considered him. "Did you have another idea?"

"Yes," Liam said brusquely. "I did promise my brother that I would take care of you, Emma, and despite our differences, I do mean that. Would it not be simpler, if the dire necessity did – God forbid – arise and your future needed to be provided for, to just marry me?"

"What?" Emma was flabbergasted. "Why on earth would I want to marry _you?"_

Liam looked stung enough at the speed of her refusal to make her consider that there was possibly some wounded masculine pride at stake here, but still. "Why not?" he countered stiffly. "My brother's child would be raised with the Jones name, and in the event of my death, you would be entitled to a Navy pension as my widow. I could take you away from the Indies, find a new posting somewhere. The English would not take me back, nor do I feel any inclination to return, but qualified and experienced captains are in demand by any country. I imagine the French, for example, would be all too happy to employ me. It would be quite sensible."

"Sensible?" Emma was still struggling to wrap her head around this. "Marry _me,_ when I'm well aware of what you and Regina have going on? Besides, I'm also aware that you still don't think much of me. Why would I want you to _condescend_ to take me, make me _and_ Regina so unhappy, when I further doubt it's something you very much want to do yourself? Why?"

Liam looked at her stubbornly. "It would be the right thing to do."

"I've told you before, but you have an extremely odd definition of that term. Besides, as noted, you very much _could_ still die, and being your widow alone would not protect me. After all, you have most thoroughly burned your bridges with the Royal Navy. Unless you were thinking that we could sail to Paris and you could get a new position with the French Navy immediately? Putting _aside_ all the other reasons why it would be a horrible – "

"I _promised_ my brother I'd look after you and the child, and since it will likely soon be the only Jones left in the world – "

"Is this about me or your last name? Not even to mention that you could still always marry someone you actually cared for, whether Regina or otherwise, and carry it on without – "

"Madam, it is not presently as if you have a _great_ deal of choice, and if Killian does not return, or even if he does, there is still the fact that a known pirate needs all the help she can get in – "

"Aye, I can bloody well do without _your_ help! How could I trust you to take care of me? You didn't take care of Killian! You failed him! You lied to him! You didn't – you never – "

The instant the words were out of her mouth, Emma wanted to bite them back, but they still hung in the air, consuming and poisonous. "Jesus," she said. "Jesus. Bloody hell. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Liam. I – I don't know what came over me. That was out of line."

Liam didn't answer, lips white, as he stared at his hands for a long, nauseous moment. Then he looked up. "Surely no more than the truth, then? After all, you're right. I did fail him. I did lie to him. For the longest bloody time, and told myself I was doing us both a favor. Perhaps you are entirely justified to wonder if I might do the exact same thing with you, and with his child. I could say that it was not all the story, I could make excuses – but yes. It would remain. I did."

"I'm sorry," Emma said again. Had a brief flash of Liam as she had first met him, the tall, handsome, proud Navy captain striding into Lord Archibald's office on Jamaica with Killian at his side, while she was disguised as Emma White the merchant's daughter and neither of them realized the truth of the other, or that they had been ordered to hunt them down. No matter her complicated feelings for Liam himself, it was painful to reconcile that image with the gaunt, greying, haunted, scruffy, scarred, shadowed man sitting before her, a man who had been through the gristmill and then some, and lost everything he had ever believed in or fought for. She knew that Liam was the only other person in the world who might love Killian as much, if not more, than she did, and who would go to the same lengths for him – even stubbornly volunteering to marry her in the name of keeping his word, of not breaking one more promise to his beloved little brother, no matter how utterly personally disastrous it might be. "As I said. You didn't deserve that."

Liam smiled bitterly, as if to question when it had ever been about _deserving._ "Be that as it may, if you truly have no wish to be inflicted with my company, I will not force it on you. Mind, I am far from convinced about the wisdom of attempting a return to Jamaica, since we both know the trouble that tends to ensue when we get within sniffing distance of that bloody island, but. . ." He hesitated. "My – my father ran away to France, after he left us. Le Havre. I found out when I – I met my other brother. Thought to start again, forget his old life and anything that went with it, and I. . . I don't suppose I can do that. I've spent long enough trying not to be him, it would be rather dismaying if I stumbled at the finish. If that's what you want, if that is what both of you truly think is best, I'll sail with Miranda to Jamaica and see what can be done."

Emma and Miranda exchanged a look. "You can – you can bring Regina with you," Emma offered awkwardly. "That way she would know that I wasn't trying to take you away from her. Besides, I doubt she would enjoy being stuck here with only me for company, and frankly, I wouldn't feel entirely comfortable either."

"Do you want that?" Liam cocked his head. "If all went well, we _should_ be back before your time, but we all know that is sometimes less than likely. I assume Tiana and Ursula and the other women of the island would help you, but while Regina can be rather less than comforting at times, she would at least be someone you knew. And for all her sharp edges and short remarks, I don't think she still wants to see you hurt."

Emma was rather touched at his concern, even as she was not at all sure that she shared his conclusions about any positive change in Regina's demeanor toward her. It was true that after giving birth to Henry entirely alone, except for a curt and unfriendly midwife, she was in little haste to repeat the experience. She had been newly wed to Walsh, but he saw no reason to be around for the arrival of a child that was not his, and mostly was concerned as to whether he would have to hire a girl for the cooking and cleaning while she was off her feet. He was not overtly cruel or callous to her, but he was also well aware that he had done her a favor in marrying a pregnant and disgraced ex-maidservant with few other options, who would have had to throw herself on the dubious charity of a poorhouse if he refused her. At least the Maroon women would be more comforting than that, but it was still alone, especially since there was no way to be sure when – or if – Killian, Sam, and Flint would make it back. And as well, no way to know when exactly the child would come, or what obstacles might arise, for any of them.

"I think it should be all right," she said instead. "I still have two months, and it shouldn't take _that_ long for a voyage to Jamaica and back, even if Lord Archibald is recalcitrant. With a good wind, you could be there inside a week, spend a few days badgering him, get the pardon in hand, and then a trip of the same length back. It could be done in just over a fortnight."

Liam looked at her wryly, hearing that _could be_ as well as she did. "If you say so," he conceded at last. "Though you still have to allow some time for us to find a ship, and it might cut it quite finely, if there are any more delays than that."

"I've done it before," Emma said quietly. "I survived. I'll do it again if I have to."

Miranda looked at her with a troubled expression, clearly wanting to promise that she would be there for her, but knowing as well that she could not be in two places at once, and that if she went to Jamaica with Liam, she might therefore have to possibly miss the birth. But the pardon was more important than Emma's own personal feelings, her own fear of being alone again. The most morbid part of her whispered that there was, of course, always a small but far from insignificant risk of a woman dying in childbed, and that if that happened to her, with no chance at all to say goodbye to her loved ones, to ask them to take care of Henry, of each other –

No. No, that would not happen, or if it did, there was no use dwelling on it, for it could not be changed. Emma took a slow breath, composing herself. Knew that if she had to think about it much longer, she would change her mind, tell them not to go. Merlin's vision was still merely one fish in the sea, even one far too likely to come to pass in some shape or form, and she was _not_ running scared before the shadow of prophecy, she was not. This was a mere matter of good sense, of protecting herself, of having the option of a pardon, should the uttermost end of need arise. If it ever did come to the place of needing to use it, everything else would already be lost, and perhaps it would be. . . almost easy, in a way. She and Miranda could make something for themselves, and for the children, in Boston. They had been there once before, after all, and knew that it was certainly no ninth circle of Hell. It might be far from any future they wanted or dreamed of, but it would still be one. As horrible as it sounded, they had to consider it.

"Very well," Emma said, as steadily as she could. "Let's get started."

* * *

It was a long voyage north. Hauling two dangerous pirates away from their attack by main force, and then requiring them to remain in consort with you, was not the recipe for peace of mind and uneventful sailing, and Killian kept nervously checking the shadowed shapes of the _Revenge_ and the _Ranger_ lurking sullenly off the _Jolie's_ aft quarters – ideally positioned for any attack if they decided to avenge the insult rather more vehemently. They had had to go well out east, to open sea where the waves rolled free for thousands of miles with nothing but the distant coast of Africa to stop them, due to the fact that they could not be sure if there would be pursuit. The _Scarborough_ had been sinking the last time they saw it, but the _Windsor_ was still afloat and in full command of her gun batteries, and even for four pirate ships (especially when two of those might be inclined to get their own back on the other two) it would be a hassle to fight free. They could likely take the _Windsor_ down, but it would also just as likely cost them at least one of their own, and while it would be convenient if it was either Blackbeard or Vane, that was still a considerable and damaging loss to the pirates' cause. David Nolan had made the bargain to rescue Sam, yes, but that was not the same as letting them go without a scratch, and while Killian did not _think_ so, he was also not in the mood for avoidable catastrophes. East they went.

Once they were far enough out that they could be relatively sure of having gotten cleanly away, they had to drop anchor and try to regroup. All the crews were exhausted from how hard they had driven them on the outgoing voyage to Antigua, and the sea was as smooth and dark as glass, the endless star-flecked horizon spreading like a carapace of lustrous diamonds. The only light apart from them were the ships' lanterns, tiny specks on the great face of the deep, and the world was almost silent. The sails were reefed, the guns drawn in, and every man was given double the grog ration and allowed to retire from duty to his hammock. Especially after he had denied them a rich prize on St. John's, Killian thought it prudent to be generous.

He could not see what was happening on the other ships, though it seemed to be similar, and wondered if he should keep one eye open for potential midnight ambushes from Blackbeard or Vane. Blackbeard he thought not, mostly;terrifying as the bugger was, he did have a sort of rough-hewn honor, and he _had_ obeyed Killian's order to pull off and sink the _Scarborough_ instead. As ever, Vane was a complete murderous enigma. But it would not do him much good to take on Killian here, in the middle of the empty sea with the _Ranger's_ twenty-odd guns against the _Jolie's_ sixty and no way to be certain which way the other two would break (or rather Blackbeard, as he could be assured that Flint would go great gangbusters against him) and while the man might be a lunatic, he was not a stupid one. For now, at least, they should be safe.

He and Sam stood by the railing, both worn to the bone but still too high on subsiding adrenaline to sleep, as the _Jolie's_ men traipsed below. To their surprise, they were shortly joined by Lancelot, who had settled so well into his new role aboard the pirate ship, keeping peace between Maroons and ex-Navy sailors, that he had recently been elected quartermaster. "Are we making back for the island?" he asked, taking a considering sip of his own grog. "Between us, I feel as if that would be unwise. The men were of course willing to rescue you, Black Sam, but not entirely to pass up all possibility of a score in doing it. We're well out in the Atlantic shipping lanes here. The traffic will be thin, it's still early in the year, but there might be something."

"And I stopped _my_ men from their sport and revenge in sacking St. John's, yes." Killian turned to regard the water with a troubled expression. "You two both know that the most likely ships to be passing through here at this time of year are slavers. We could certainly attack one and free it, but there would not be much in the way of tangible spoils. Rich merchants or important sorts coming from England won't even set out for at least another six weeks. We'd have to hope for someone traveling within the Caribbean."

Lancelot and Sam exchanged a look, as they of course both had a vested interest in taking down slavers, but they also knew that a second moral victory without plunder to show for it, so soon after pushing their luck with the first one, would be far from the thing to quiet the latent discontent. As yet it was nothing more than mumbling, but that could quickly turn into much more, and now that Killian's men had fully embraced the pirate lifestyle, they also knew they could depose him if they chose, elect a new leader who would be more receptive to their demands for money, and lots of it. At least Flint still had the success of the Spanish treasure to ride on for a while longer, but Killian had put his crew through a buggering shit-ton of struggle and pain, and without, as yet, much reason for them to keep doing so. Something had to give.

"We're not far from my old stomping grounds with La Buse," Sam suggested. "Olivier Levasseur, the French corsair," he clarified, off Killian's puzzled look. "I told Emma about him, but I suppose not you. Former pirating associate of mine. As I also told her, there's a cay off Tortola that makes an excellent base for picking off anyone passing in either direction. North and west from here, and with the trades at our back, it shouldn't be that long of a sail. Get there, do some honest swashbuckling, take a few prizes, and everyone feels better." He shrugged. "Should smooth over any hard feelings with Blackbeard and Vane, at least. And it's been plenty long enough since any of us had the chance."

Killian could not deny that this was true, even as he had to struggle with the fact that he, of course, wanted to get back to Emma as soon as possible. "Shouldn't we at least wait and see if we can intercept the _Whydah_ before haring off God knows where again? She'll be coming south to join up with us, and if your men don't know that we've already left Antigua, they could sail right into David bloody Nolan's waiting arms. I know she runs thirty-six guns, but the _Windsor_ runs sixty. It would be the hell of a firefight, and the odds well against them."

"David wouldn't shoot up my ship," Sam said defensively. "Well, that is, if he _knew_ it was my ship, which he might not if he saw a pirate vessel sailing straight at him, and without time to ask questions. True, though, that I'd like my own girl back. And believe me, I know how many guns the _Windsor_ runs. I used to fire one of them for almost two years."

Killian could hear a distinct edge in Sam's voice, and it worried him. It reminded him that while he might have successfully convinced him not to give into the darkness and murder Hume, and while Sam had agreed to sail with him and stop the attack on St. John's, he was still more than deservedly raw over his ordeal aboard the _Scarborough_ and nearly being hanged as a traitor, over getting Robin killed when the man had done nothing but try to save his life, and everything else that had bubbled up and come to light when he had spent years with it safely shut away. Killian could tell that Sam himself wanted to sail to Tortola and do some pirating, try to clear his head. Sam rarely had to fight his targets directly or for long, using clever and bloodless methods of exacting their surrender, but every man had a limit, and when Killian hit his, the spectacular sack and destruction of English Harbor and Kingston had been the result. Sam was not likely to follow him into such extremes, but he was in a dangerous place, and could just as possibly go over. All it would take was one ill-timed push, and Killian knew better than anyone how those had a habit of inconveniently happening along right when they would do the most damage.

"I'll consult with Flint," was what he said. "Though I doubt he'll pass up the opportunity to hunt a few prizes – indeed, with four of us all hungry for a score, the only question might be whether we can find enough to satisfy everyone. Perhaps if we can rendezvous with the _Whydah,_ you can go onto Tortola as you wish, and I can go back to Emma."

Sam looked at him unreadably. "Your men want a prize more than anyone," he pointed out. "And I think you'll find that if you deny them one more time, it won't end well."

Killian squirmed, but could not, after all, dispute that. He was increasingly and uncomfortably realizing that he would have to go with the others, and hope there was something good enough to quash any brewing whiffs of mutiny – he, after all, had just had all the demonstration in the world as to why he could not possibly afford to overlook it or not take it seriously. Still, staying away from Emma, especially with things getting as late as they were. . . if she thought they had been sunk or captured, if they were not coming back. . .

"Aye, well," he said again, not quite able to meet Sam's eyes. "We'll see what we can do, in the morning. You should get some sleep."

Sam nodded shortly. "I'll go below."

"No, you take my cabin, I can bunk with the men."

"I think I've had quite enough special treatment, haven't I?" The edge in Sam's voice was sharper than ever. "Soon they'll be wondering if it smells like a rose when I fart, or if I get fine cuts of steak and bottles of expensive wine while they gnaw on their moldy hardtack and chug their sour grog. I'll go below. You'd be wise to let me."

Killian stared at him, stunned. "We had to save your life, Sam. It was nothing to do with special treatment."

"Was it?" Sam rubbed a hand over his face. "Four pirate ships and however many men put at risk, all for me? I am glad for it, make no mistake. As I said when I handed myself over, I had to trust that you would help me after what I did for you, and you did, you did, but this. . . after everything, after the trouble for me, after what I've. . ." He stopped, shaking his head. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed. Good night, Captain, Quartermaster. I'll see you in the morning."

And with that, he went.

Killian's own sleep was far less than restful, tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, until dawn came rather too early for his tastes and he had to roust himself out and prepare to get things bloody dealt with. As predicted, when Flint, Blackbeard, and Vane arrived for another extremely delicate conference, all of them voted soundly in favor of proceeding to Tortola at once, as soon as the _Whydah_ could be retrieved, and raising hell accordingly. While Killian might be commander of the fleet, he would be skating on very thin ice indeed if he perfunctorily overruled them for personal reasons, pirates had a particular aversion where tyrants were concerned, and so he had no choice but to acquiesce to their decision. He had already spent his political capital stopping the attack on St. John's, and this, therefore, was the consequence. They would go.

They had to be careful about sailing in from their current hideout, as that could run them across any of the trouble they had so narrowly avoided upon their eventful exit from Antigua in the first place, but they also had to make sure that they caught the _Whydah_ before it got too close. This was a fiendishly complicated cat-and-mouse act, but after a few days, they finally managed it. When they ascertained that it was in fact the fifth member of their cohort, they signaled, a riotous cheer went up, and Sam returned to his ship to an absolute hero's welcome from his men, who had not been at all sure that they would see him again (certainly not alive, at least) and he really smiled for the first time since his rescue, clapping backs and shaking hands and making jovial conversation on the crowded deck. Killian watched him anxiously, hopeful that this would keep him from a return to any of those dark places. It would be all right. It had to be.

Thus finally reunited and at full power, the fleet – the _Jolie,_ the _Whydah,_ the _Walrus,_ the _Ranger,_ and the _Revenge –_ turned northwest to Tortola. February was more than half gone by this point, and Killian could not help but count in his head. Emma said she expected the child at the end of April or the first week of May, depending, and the sailing season from England would begin in another fortnight or so. Gold had certainly already sent lurid word of all their infamous exploits, so the Navy would waste no time in dispatching reinforcements. Figuring a six-week journey without a providential tempest to sink the wretched bloody lot of them, they could indeed possibly arrive just before the baby did. _And I'm not even entirely certain which of those is the more terrifying._

They reached Tortola by the end of the week, where the fragile coalition finally splintered. Blackbeard and Vane immediately struck out on their own to hunt potential prizes in the waters around Puerto Rico, which, while not as wealthy as Cuba, was still a jewel in the Spaniards' Caribbean crown. While Killian was not particularly sorry to see the back of them (at least for the time being), he was nonetheless well aware that they were testing if he was strong enough to put his foot down and make them stay, and since he had not, they had taken it as a sign that they need not bother being afraid of him in the future. For all he bloody knew, the bastards were going to turn straight around, sail back to Antigua, and sack it extra thoroughly this time just to make a point, but even they were not quite that insane. As well, there was the fact that the Navy ships would soon be arriving to reinforce it and set out on Gold's orders to hunt them down without mercy. If Blackbeard and Vane could see beyond the affront he had done to their pillaging, they would understand that it was wiser to stick together, that there was strength in numbers, that if they scattered now, arrogantly thinking that the fighting was over, they would be easy prey to be picked off one by one. But of course, they hadn't. They still thought, perhaps not without reason, that they were invincible.

In the meantime, that left Killian, Sam, and Flint as partners in the enterprise of taking a good score, and quickly. Flint had the most leeway, as he had both the Spanish treasure and a winter of capturing ships, but with bloody fucking John Silver chirping in the crew's ears, any inclination he might have had to rest on his laurels was soundly disabused. Silver of course had been the chief opponent of the plan to rescue Sam on grounds that it was not very profitable, and he had enough sway to get the _Walrus_ well under his thumb. It wasn't that he opposed Flint, exactly. Just that he kept subtly goading and encouraging the men to ask more from him, to second-guess him, without ever saying so openly. He had also recently made his elevation to quartermaster official, which doubtless was quite a thorn in Flint's foot. There also was, however, ever so slightly, the tiniest flicker of fear, or at least uncertainty. He might still be in command of the men, but it was Silver who held emotional sway on them, who they would follow more unquestioningly than they would him, and that was a most dangerous spot for a captain.

"I wonder if something could be arranged to happen to him," Flint said darkly, on their third evening without a score and the opinion starting to be openly voiced on both _Jolie_ and _Walrus_ that if this did not change soon, they should think about following the others to Puerto Rico. "You knew the slick bastard before, didn't you? Isn't there anything you could tell me about a weak spot? He's worse than snake oil. Nothing fucking sticks to him."

"Aye, his. . . father was my last master." Despite his personal distaste for Silver, Killian was not eager to discuss the subject. "He was like that as a lad as well, at least in the short time I knew him before he ran off. Not that I can entirely blame him for that, but. . ."

"But?" Flint's grip tightened on the railing. "Though this could be solved with a prize, I grant. Didn't Bellamy say this was supposed to be a good place for finding them?"

"Sam can't conjure one from thin air if they aren't sailing." Killian glanced out over the sunset sea. "And I need it more than you do, to be bloody honest."

Flint flashed a sardonic smile. "So what? I should politely step aside and permit you to have first dibs? I killed Hume. That was quite a substantial favor to both of you. Don't I get the reward?"

"It wasn't a _favor_ , it was what had to be done, and I'm glad you were there to do it, but. . ." Every time Killian thought he had finally gotten a grasp on what lay beneath Flint's black and polished shell, it slid away again, elusive, purposefully contrary, refusing to acknowledge any weakness, even when it had been there for all to see. Or perhaps that was precisely why. He had been too compromised, too raw, too much in danger of letting his guard down, and that, by now, was the one thing that Killian knew Flint would never do, at least not for long. It was too much a habit, being alone in the dark and desolate fortress of his head. Even if he wanted to get out of it for good, if he desperately wanted to be free, he simply no longer knew how.

He glanced at the older man, wanting to say something but not knowing what, when a shout went up from the bow. Someone waved furiously at them, they hurried over to look, and the notice became general that sails had been sighted on the horizon, and were closing quickly. There was no question, of course, that they were going to take it, and with the _Jolie,_ the _Walrus,_ and the _Whydah_ on the job, the ship – a good-sized three-master, flying English colors – was quickly surrounded to every side. The wise thing to do would have been to run up the white flag immediately, but the captain seemed to be dawdling. Either he had some delusion of being able to fight his way out, or he had something particularly valuable on board that he did not wish to give up without a struggle. Either way, this boded, at bloody last, rather well for them.

Killian and Flint decided to assist the bugger's decision-making process by opening a warning volley, whistling across the bow and sending up splinters without causing full damage, but leaving the threat more than implicit that they could quite easily do so if they wanted. The hands were frantically unleashing more canvas, as if the ship thought she could outrun them, and the _Whydah,_ the fastest of the three, rode up hard on her starboard side to put an end to that amusing little experiment, unleashing a bombardment that sent her reeling. Realizing that he was dealing with a coordinated and skillful attack, and not just three vagabonds who had happened to run across each other and were fighting like dogs over a bone for any scrap of meat, the captain bowed to the inevitable, struck his colors, and luffed into irons, slewing to a halt in the water.

Barely ten minutes later, the crews of all three pirate ships were aboard, stripping their captured prize to the bone. There were several chests of silver and silks and trade goods in the hold, and these were being carried off to each of the respective ships, when one of the men shouted from the cabin, "Oy! Captain! Get a load of this!"

As this could apply to Killian, Sam, or Flint, and doubtless they each did not intend to let the other two handle it without recourse to them, they crossed to the cabin, ducked in, and found one of the _Walrus'_ men holding a terrified girl at gunpoint. She had big dark doe eyes, dark curls, and lace-trimmed sleeves on a gown of fine lawn, clearly a person of some worth, and she cowered harder at the sight of the three hard-bitten pirate captains, surely here to commit rack and ravishment and other hideous manners of assault upon her tender person. "Please," she squeaked. "Please – my father will pay a good ransom, please don't hurt me, please – "

"Put the gun down." Sam did not speak particularly loudly, nor of course was it even one of his crewmembers, but the _Walrus_ man hesitated, then did as ordered. "We don't treat unarmed children in this way. Are you all right, lass?"

"I. . ." The girl opened and shut her mouth, clearly unsure if she even dared to speak directly to him. She gulped. "I – I'm not hurt, sir. Please don't. I'm – I'm worth more alive. Please."

"We're not going to hurt you." Sam crossed to the bed where she was sitting, crouched down to her level, and pulled a fat pearl out of his pocket. "There you go. Sorry for the hole I blew in your ship. Make it into something pretty, why don't you?"

The girl's eyes bugged out, but after a moment of sitting there with her startled-fawn look, she shyly reached for it, waited to see if it was a trick and he would snatch it away, then pulled her hand back as if embarrassed with herself. "I – no. I can't accept stolen goods from a pirate. My father – he sent for me from London, the captain said it was too early to sail but we left anyway, there was a storm, we were blown badly off course, he'll pay for me, I promise. I. . ." She stopped again, twisting her fingers together, looking up at Sam. "Who are you?"

"They call me Black Sam." A faint, dry smile pulled at his mouth. "You've nothing to fear from me, child. Or from them, truly."

It was unclear if this name meant anything to the girl or not, or if she thought it was merely a fitting cognomen for yet another evil, pilfering fiend. Her big dark eyes darted between the three of them, as if weighing up her chances of making a break for it, until she had to accept that this was most unlikely. She sucked in an unsteady breath and got slowly to her feet, smoothing her skirt with trembling fingers. "Do I – do I have your word on that, sirs?"

"Aye, lass," Killian said, supposing it was about bloody time for the poor girl to hear a reassuring word from one of them apart from Sam. Flint, however, had a strange look on his face, staring at the girl as if he almost recognized her, but not quite, and was not sure if it was something to celebrate or not. Killian elbowed him. "Hey," he hissed. "She's got a rich father. Might be we can double what we've already taken off the ship. Or perhaps – "

"What's your name, girl?" Flint said sharply, startling all of them. "Who's this father?"

"I. . ." The girl hesitated once more, glanced at Sam, at Killian, and then at the floor, not entirely brave enough to meet Flint's eyes head-on. "My name is Abigail," she said to the scarred boards. "Abigail Ashe. My father is the Governor of Carolina Colony, he lives in Charlestown. Lord Peter Ashe."

* * *

It felt good to be back on the waves again. That much at least Liam could not deny, even as he remained deeply dubious about everything to do with the entire enterprise, far less its chances of actual success. But he _could_ see the sense in trying to get their hands on a pardon for Emma, a last-ditch escape hatch if need be, and that of the whole panoply of bad and worse options, Lord Archibald was the only one they could possibly have enough dirt on to twist his arm to procure it. It was vain and foolish of him to hope that there was any honorable way to conduct this business, after all, and he scarcely had any leisure to throw stones in that department. At least he had not resorted to open piracy and brigandage, _yet._ Aye, and he could keep telling himself that, while he was standing on the deck of a stolen ship, a notorious pirate's wife aboard, to get a pardon for a pirate, as asked by his brother, the pirate. _Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jones._

The ship herself was not a bad little beauty: a Bermuda sloop, light and fast, which the Maroons were more familiar with and able to sail than a traditional heavy warship (not that one of those would have suddenly happened by, or that they would even have been able to take it if it had). But beggars were not choosers, the crew of slovenly louts that the Maroons had relieved of the sloop were almost certainly illicit privateers anyway, and here they were, headed south to Jamaica, better known as the place where nothing ever went according to plan. It remained to be seen whether being fully aware of that fact would forestall the newest catastrophe, or only make it worse. What was the saying, after all? _Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me? Fool me thrice, shame on – what? Everything?_

Still, though. Being out on the wind and water, once more in command of a vessel, after his long layup on the Maroons' island and general inactivity, was a godsend, and Liam decided to accept that much at least. The alternative might be having to think about what he seemed to have commenced, completely by accident, with Regina. He hadn't _meant_ to, of course, and he doubted that either had she. But when she came to see him that first night back from Nassau, when she told him quietly what had happened to Liam Junior, when they were sitting there staring at each other without a word and then suddenly the distance between them closed, and she was in his arms, and nothing bloody hurt for the first time in goddamned months. . . no matter the consequences, it hadn't felt worth it to stop. As if even he had made his point about being stubborn, and for a little while, he had to give in. As long as it _was_ just once.

It, of course, had not been just once.

Liam had been tempted, rather cravenly, to leave her behind on the Maroons' island, in the name of providing companionship to Emma so she would not be entirely alone if they didn't make it back before the child was born. But as neither woman was keen on this idea, and as Regina knew plenty of useful things to threaten Lord Archibald with if he decided to give them trouble, it would be better served to bring her along. And as the sloop was quite small, and there was only one cabin, that meant they were bunking together, albeit with Miranda directly across the way and tactful enough to feign sleep if she heard anything taking place beneath their blankets. Liam kept insisting to himself that he wouldn't, but that was yet another vow that seemed to be vanishing swiftly into thin air. He was alone, he had _been_ alone for so long, and with Regina, even for a little while and knowing all the reasons this would never last or be a wise idea, he wasn't. He'd rarely been with any woman more than once, visiting a port brothel here and there when the urge arose, but his life was so consumed with his ship and his crew and his duty and his missions and, of course, looking after his little brother that this was very much new to him. He pretended to know more about women than Killian, since that was his right as the elder, but this remained just as much a strange and tender and shattering revelation to him. At last, at last, in some small part, he began to understand why his brother had done as much as he had, for Emma.

Then there was the other woman aboard. He wasn't sleeping with this one, obviously, but Miranda Barlow was considerably intriguing to him, even as he tried to refrain from pestering her with ungentlemanly questions. He could detect some similarity in their lives, insofar as they had both once been part of the same world and then thrust violently from it by heartbreak and betrayal and the defection of a loved one, left to pick up the pieces and try to make any sort of future in a place they did not know at all. From what she said about Flint, and from what Liam himself knew of the rumors about the man, he could piece together a further resemblance between Flint and Killian. He almost wanted to ask Miranda more about Flint, in the name of better understanding the man that his brother had become, and might eventually be, but it was plain that the topic was presently a sensitive one for Miranda. As if she had reached the point of realizing that there might be no other earthly thing she could do for someone she loved so much, and might have to continue on her own, no matter how much it would break her heart. Liam, who knew something of that himself, the feeling he had had when he had to let Killian go when they crossed paths outside of Boston, almost wanted to comfort her, but had no idea what to say. He, of course, had no idea how this would work out any more than the rest of them, and Miranda doubtless wanted and needed no advice from him. So, as a rule, he kept his mouth shut.

The Bermuda sloop was much better equipped to sail windward than the heavy, square-rigged Navy ships Liam was used to – their maneuverability and speed over larger vessels was indeed precisely why they were favored by privateers, pirates, and other seafaring sorts up to no good – and they made the journey to Jamaica in just about three days. Liam and Regina had of course been here fairly recently, tracking Killian the first time, and at least the Kingston harbor looked somewhat better now than it had then. It didn't reek rottingly of death and decay, at any rate, and they'd managed to get it cleaned up and the rebuilding at least somewhat started. HMS _Diamond_ was having a new mast fitted, though it looked as if HMS _Jamaica_ was unsalvageable, being broken up for scrap. As he looked at it, Liam experienced a strange feeling, halfway between relief and indignation. Upon arriving here the first time and seeing the scale of the damage Killian had done, he had been shocked and horrified and determined to find him, to put a stop to it. But seeing it actually being repaired wasn't quite the happy ending that he wanted, somehow. Didn't want them to raise the slave market up again. Didn't want them to restore the Navy ships and go back to hunting and killing. It made him almost angry, when it shouldn't. Or perhaps it should. He had wearily given up on anything making a damn bit of sense anymore.

"Let me do the talking," Miranda said, as they were going ashore, the ladies with their hats and parasols and Liam duly escorting one on each arm. "We need to be delicate about this, of course, and we obviously may not be the only ones who have taken note of Lord Archibald's potential misfortunes. I doubt the news about his Jacobite sympathies has traveled widely, but whoever _does_ know will be dangerous."

Liam was rather rankled at the implication that he could not be trusted to be delicate, but it was true that this was Miranda's realm of influence more than his, and having come this far, he was not about to do something stupid now. This _was_ Jamaica, after all; things would not need his help in going horribly wrong. So he took a better grip on their arms, a deep breath, and set off.

The servant who answered the door at the governor's mansion was justifiably wary of visitors, and it took quite a bit of explanation on Miranda's part until he agreed to let them into the drawing room. When Lord Archibald finally appeared, it was with the distinct aspect of a fox flushed out by the hounds of the hunt. Nonetheless, his smile was gracious, if rather fixed. "Lady Miranda. I was not expecting to see you again – though you are of course welcome."

"Oh, I am quite sure, though I do recall you had a few choice things to say to me at our last meeting." Miranda smiled, just as graciously. "As well, that you did admit certain truths of your political sensibilities to my companion, Captain Flint. Rather explicitly, if I recall. Is it true? The news from Sheriffmuir?"

Lord Archibald's eyes darted between them, starting slightly at Liam. "Captain Jones. This is unexpected company to find you in."

"Believe me," Liam said. "I know. Please answer the lady's question."

Lord Archibald hesitated as long as he could, but if it was true that he had already come clean to Miranda and Flint at their earlier meeting, he could hardly delay for long. "Yes," he said grudgingly. "All true. Could hardly have gone worse. They have the earl of Derwentwater and the viscount of Kenmure prisoner, they mean to execute them at the Tower – it might have already happened, I do not know. James Stuart has fled to France with the tattered remnants of his retinue, disgraced and penniless. There may be another Rising, but. . ." He clenched a fist. "It is difficult to see how it would be accomplished in this year, or the next, or the one after that."

Regina made an indeterminate noise in her throat. Liam doubted she had much sympathy either for Stuarts or Hanovers, as long as _someone_ sat the throne, ran the bloody country, and kept her in business. "Well," she said. "You look rather apprehensive, my lord, but certainly you can imagine that a pirate's wife, an ex-Navy captain drummed out in disgrace, and a woman who makes her living buying and selling the dirty little secrets of the high command are not here to slap you on the wrist for it. Quite the contrary. We've come to see if you want to make a deal."

"Oh?" Lord Archibald had not been expecting that. He retreated to the sideboard to pour himself a bracing snifter of sherry, belatedly recalled his manners, and looked at them to see if they wanted any, but they shook their heads. Once he had taken a sip, and beckoned them to sit on the divan, he said, "And what could you possibly venture by a deal at this. . . pivotal moment?"

"It's simple." Regina smiled sleekly. "You need protection from those of Robert Gold's dogs who are about to come sniffing at your door – believe me, I know the man, they will. We, in turn, require an official pardon, stamped with your seal and warrant, that will allow someone convicted of. . . certain crimes to leave the Caribbean and start anew. As Governor of Jamaica, you have the authority to issue such a document, and our associates have the ability to protect you. Or smuggle you out with plenty of money, if you decided it was also prudent to get out ahead of the law and start over somewhere else. Wouldn't you think?"

Lord Archibald looked evasive. "I could never leave my post."

"I doubt you'd hold to that when Gold's redcoats kicked down your door." Regina kept surveying him coolly. "You don't have the air of a martyr. Does it at least interest you to have this opportunity, my lord?"

"I. . ." Hamilton held out for the sake of form a moment longer, then said reluctantly, "Who are you asking me to pardon, exactly?"

Regina nodded at the man next to her. "Captain Liam Jones."

There was a rustle at that, as both Miranda and Liam sat up straight and leaned forward. "In fact," Miranda interjected. "That was not _exactly_ who we came here for. It was for the woman that Captain Flint and I were traveling with when we last darkened your doorstep. Emma Swan."

" _Her?"_ Lord Archibald looked rather queasy. "Yes, the one I first encountered as Miss Emma White, the merchant's daughter? I understand she is a woman, madam, and as the gentler sex, should be entitled to consideration for clemency, but if she has made such choices as to condemn her to the proper punishment for those who do such – "

Regina bit back a satisfied smile. "Those are brave words for a man shortly about to convicted of treason, once news of his dealings gets out. But surely Your Excellency could use a captain of Liam's stature and experience, especially now that Henry Jennings has deserted you for more profitable pastures. There is no use to be had in letting him die, and plenty of it in letting him live." She leaned forward, giving Lord Archibald an excellent look down the bodice of her dress, as she laid a hand over his. "Could you not find it in your heart, my lord governor? At all?"

Miranda cleared her throat. "We still did need to discuss the matter of Miss Swan, good cousin."

"Shall I be throwing pardons about like candied plums?" Lord Archibald was starting to look cornered again. "Surely, even if they remained in ignorance of my. . . other activities, such reprieve of the Crown's enemies from the axe would draw their suspicion on its own?"

"Indeed," Regina said. "Which is why you should issue only one. To Liam."

"I cannot countenance that." Miranda remained polite, but very firm. "No offense meant, Captain. But you know what we came here to do, and the promise you made to your brother. My lord, Emma is with child. Certainly if nothing else, Christian law forbids her execution, but only until it is born. After that, we would still need a pardon. And if your ability to survive the storm that Gold is sending for you rests upon you issuing it, I do suppose you will."

Lord Archibald's gaze flickered back and forth between the women, as if wondering which of them he was to take more seriously at their word. Miranda was the wife of his late cousin, but that was hardly a pleasant association considering Thomas' end, and she had already been by with Flint and Emma to blackmail him with knowledge of his Jacobite activities, right before Captain Hook arrived to completely destroy his city. Nor did he have any more call to trust Regina, as surely he had heard all about Antigua's notorious brothel madam and her intriguing in the waters of high-level politics, how a night in bed with one of her beautiful courtesans could cost you, if you were not careful, far more than just your money. As it was, it was a perfect stalemate, and there was only one deciding vote in the room. And so, as he had to, Liam cast it.

"Doubtless you will see the merits to both arguments, my lords," he said. "But Regina is right. Only one pardon should be issued here. And that one, as agreed, to Emma Swan."

Both Miranda and Regina made slight, convulsive movements, even as the latter reached out to grip his knee. "Liam," she hissed. "Are you mad? They'll _kill_ you. You were the one saying you needed a new posting. And after Daniel – " She stopped. "Don't be an idiot."

"I made a promise to my brother." Liam's head came up stubbornly, gaze fixed on the lot of them. "I'll sort myself out somehow. The pardon goes to Emma Swan."

Lord Archibald raised one eyebrow, as doubtless this sort of self-sacrifice was not at all common in his dealings. "Well, that _is_ assuredly noble of you, Captain Jones. Are you sure you want to do that, though? Throw away whatever is left of your own reputation, on behalf of a piratess and jezebel who is not likely to appreciate the – "

"Do not call her that," Liam said levelly. "If you please. Do we have a deal, or no?"

Lord Archibald hesitated, then nodded once, curtly. He held out his hand, and Liam shook it. Then the governor fetched writing paper, a quill, knife, horn, sander, wax, and seal, seated himself at his desk, and with Liam and Miranda observing to ensure punctilious accuracy, composed an official and unconditional pardon for Emma Swan, clearing her of all culpability for past crimes against the Crown and, contingent upon her committing no more of them, entitled her to a free and peaceable life in whichever dominion of His Majesty King George (it must have chafed Hamilton's arse like a burr to write that out, even in official pretext) that she should so select. He finished it, signed it, stamped it, folded it and sealed it with ring and crest and ribbon, then handed it over to them. "And in return, I am protected against my enemies, especially as they are also _your_ enemies. Is that not the case?"

"Yes," Liam said. "Once I have delivered the pardon, and met with the others, I will inform them of the arrangement. And return to Jamaica, if Your Excellency should have need. At worst, we hang side by side. It is true, you know. The storm is coming."

Lord Archibald glanced at him, then nodded. They shook once more, and then the three of them collected their wraps, even as Liam could feel Regina stewing. "One more pardon can't hurt," she burst out, as they were turning to go. "What will they do, hang you twice? If _she_ can be excused, you can. _You_ can be a self-sacrificial idiot, but I won't help you out with it. What if I won't leave until His Excellency – " she smiled sweetly and dangerously at Lord Archibald – "picks up that little pen of his and writes one for you too?"

"One pardon was agreed," Hamilton said. "I've given what you asked. If you're going to ask more of me, my own price – "

"Oh yes. Your _price."_ Regina turned on him in a swirl of skirts. "So terribly difficult, isn't it, to write another? Might unavoidably strain your hand? We could still leave here and not tell anybody to bother to protect your island, you know. What are you going to do then, hope that the _Diamond's_ mast holds together long enough for you to escape out the back, while Gold's men storm the place? I'm sure that will be very dignified. I'm not leaving with _Emma_ _Swan_ pardoned, and no chance at all for you to condescend yourself, my _lord,_ to – "

Liam reached for her. "Regina – "

Regina plunged a hand into her skirt pocket, tied around her waist, and pulled out something, which she cocked, aimed, and pointed at Lord Archibald's head. "A pardon for Liam. Now."

Lord Archibald stared at her, possibly never having been held at gunpoint by a lady before, even as Liam struggled to push Regina's arm down. Jacobite or no Jacobite, no colonial official in the Caribbean would countenance such open and dangerous disrespect, and if she kept up with this, Lord Archibald could just as easily issue letters patent to cancel the pardon for Emma that was still drying its ink. "Regina, are you _mad?_ I said, I'll sort it out for myself! Put the bloody gun down and let's go before – "

 _"I am not leaving without it!"_ Regina's eyes were almost black with rage. "Either that or we tear up the pardon for Emma right here, and start over! I don't care about your promise to your bloody brother! If you're so determined to die, I'm not going to let you, I won't – "

"Put. The. Gun. Down." Liam stepped between her and Lord Archibald, even as he was quite sure that he did not want to go through the ordeal of yet _another_ bad wound. But he was at least fairly confident that Regina would not shoot him, at least if she could at all avoid it. _"Now."_

She hesitated for a long, loathing moment, the pistol rattling in her gloved grip, and tears quivering on the ends of her dark lashes. Then, slowly, she lowered it the merest fraction, fighting herself every step of the way, then further. A depthless, endless silence hung heavy over the office, lasting long enough for them to hear the pelt of a tropical rainstorm on Lord Archibald's veranda – and then, in that moment, the creak of his office door opening. As they turned to look, and then turned to stone.

"Please," the tall, towheaded man in the well-cut coat said, leaning against the lintel with an expression of sardonic, mad-eyed delight. "Don't let me interrupt what looks to be a fascinating conversation. I'll wait until you're finished."

Liam could only stare at him. Might have expected this. After all, the privateer who had begun his career working for Lord Archibald, knew all of his dirty secrets and Jacobite sympathies, was precisely the perfect person for Gold to send to arrest Hamilton for treason, to rub it utterly and exquisitely in Lord Archibald's face. And when the man concerned had no conscience, and a deeply ingrained desire for brutal and bloody revenge – the man who had killed his brother, the darkest and worst half of what he could be, that shadowed mirror image –

Slowly, Liam straightened up, even as he regretted telling Regina to put the gun down so soon. Wished, rather, that he had brought one himself. Did not know in the least what was about to happen, only that it had been long, so long, so _very_ bloody long, in coming.

"Captain Jennings," he said, icily and utterly polite. "How do you do."


	33. XXXIII

**-XXXIII-**

"I'm sorry," Killian said, when Flint remained staring at the girl – Abigail – as if she was some strange and dangerous visitation from the abyss. "Am I missing something? Ashe – Lord Ashe, is he another sworn enemy of yours?" Flint had made plenty of them and then some, and the Governor of the Carolinas would obviously not be a person in the least fond of pirates, but if his own flesh and blood was in their baneful grasp, surely even he would cough up to free her. "Can't go within fifty miles of Charlestown lest he accidentally – "

"No. Rather the opposite. If it's the same – girl, Lord Peter Ashe, formerly Tory Member of Parliament for Hampshire, served in Queen Anne's Privy Council around 1705, friend and confidante to Lord Thomas and Lady Miranda Hamilton – _that_ Peter Ashe? That's your father?"

Abigail Ashe nodded timidly.

"Fuck." Flint did not appear to know how to react to this, as Killian and Sam exchanged utterly baffled looks. "And now he's lord and master of Charlestown, the place that hangs pirates as if it's going out of fashion? No memory at all of what he used to strive so hard to accomplish in Government? Not that he'd have the devil of a choice. Well, then. Isn't that the ultimate bugger of an irony. That he should end up to one side of our failure, and Miranda and I the other?"

"Any time you want to stop talking in bloody riddles and clue us in, mate," Sam said, "feel free."

"Fine." Flint's nostrils flared. "Lord Peter was a close friend to us in London – Thomas, Miranda, and myself. He was one of our chief allies in the attempt to ram a bill for the universal pardon of pirates through the Commons, to say nothing of the ordeal it took to even consider the Lords. I was unaware that he'd been given a posting in the New World after. . . well, that bloody fucking fiasco. There just, there _may_ just, be a possibility here, if we play our cards right and don't do anything foolish."

Killian felt his heart further sink at the realization that Flint already had some byzantine plot in mind, even if it might help them in the long run – that this was not a mere matter of ransoming the girl back to her grudgingly grateful father for several chests of gold, and going on their merry way. Abigail herself was looking rather stunned. _"You –_ you knew my father?" Clearly she did not think it remotely possible that such an infamous, black-clad villain could possibly have moved in the same elite circles, in the hot, airless world of Westminster drawing rooms and supper clubs, the place where powerful men crafted Britain's ever-growing empire over sherry and pipes and cards, smoking braziers and low-burning candles. "Who _are_ you?"

"Captain Flint." He smiled grimly. "But when I did business with your father, I was known as Lieutenant James McGraw, of Her Majesty's Royal Navy."

This latter name did not mean much to Abigail, as she could not have been older than six or seven when Flint and Miranda were disgraced and exiled, safely shut in her ladylike nursery and happily ignorant of her father's political wheeling and dealing. She _had,_ however, heard of the fearsome pirate captain terrorizing these waters, and she shot an anxious look at Killian and Sam, as if to ask if they would protect her if Flint decided to charge. While everyone was still in suspense, there was a brisk rap at the cabin door, and Billy Bones stuck his head in. "Captain? We've about taken everything there is off this dunghill scow, and the lads want to know if we're going to burn her – she's not fit for a prize crew after the size of the hole the _Whydah_ blew – "

At the sight of their captive, he broke off, then blinked. "Sorry. Interrupt something?"

"No." Flint crossed to the bed, took Abigail by the elbow and boosted her to her feet, not ungently, and walked her across the floor to Billy. "Take her back to the _Walrus_ and put her somewhere away from the men – my cabin, if need be. It's important."

Billy blinked again, but dutifully offered Abigail his arm, and after an intimidated glance up at the tall, blonde, muscle-bound giant, she took it and allowed him to escort her out. As soon as she was gone, Flint's jaw tightened, as he seemed lost in less-than-pleasant thoughts. Then he looked up. "The possibility is this. Lord Peter is – was – my old friend, one of the few members of the Privy Council, and the government in general, who believed in what Thomas was doing and that it was not halfway to treason to even suggest pardons for pirates. If we can contrive some way to get Abigail back to Charlestown, and have him know that she came because of me, there might be a chance to get through to him. How he might express his gratitude, who knows, but. . ." He shrugged, almost diffidently. "A man can't do this forever, can he?"

Killian stared at him. "What – you'd actually be willing to give this life up? _You?"_

Flint turned on his heel, gazing at the broken window of the cabin, so that the sun fell on his face in jagged geometries of light and shadow. "I was only thinking," he said, half to himself. "I saved Sam. I shot Hume. Got a chance, at last, to put a bullet in the head of the personification of the men who wronged us both. Miranda's still waiting for me, and I know it's becoming harder and harder for her to bear. I thought you'd be the one to understand, Jones. Of anyone."

"I – I do. I want to start anew with Emma and our child, and – " Killian was both startled and pleased. "You and I – we do have some chance for a future, despite everything. If Lord Ashe would actually pardon both of us – and Sam, of course – we could. . . we might. . ."

"And yet." Flint turned back, so that his face was entirely eclipsed in shadow again. "After all this, I still have to go bowing and scraping to them. I have to humbly ask if they, on His Excellency and His Majesty's pleasure, will _condescend_ to pardon me, for everything I did. As if it was _their_ forgiveness which had to be granted, as if I had been in the wrong to fight the just and lawful Navy all along! You know it's not! Sam knows it's not! I know it's not! Look at what they've done, when they dare to call _us_ the beasts in human skin! At least we fight to avenge terrible wrongs and lost loves and grotesque treachery! After these ten years, I – what? I go, and tell them meekly that I am very sorry? I'm not. I will never be sorry, and I don't care what it costs me. And unless I much miss my guess, neither of you are, either."

Killian was caught on the hop. He wanted to say that if all it would take for Flint to buy such a hard-earned happily-ever-after with Miranda was to swallow his pride, return Abigail to his old friend, and ask for a pardon, then he should do it – if it was that easy, what with everything at stake, he would be downright mad to refuse. But Killian also knew that it was the same as asking he himself to kneel in front of Gold and ask his forgiveness, for Sam to do likewise with Hume (if he was still alive, and thank God that he wasn't). For both of them to confess that they had been evil and immoral for fighting back after those men had destroyed their lives – that Hume was right, and he was the injured party, not Sam. That Gold was a good man faithlessly betrayed by the no-good Jones brothers, that everything they had dedicated themselves to fighting for was the wrong cause. That the world was right. That they were monsters.

Neither Killian nor Sam, therefore, had an easy answer. Indeed, Sam's lips went tight, and he clenched a fist on the back of the chair. "I don't want their fucking filthy pardon. I don't care if an angel descended from on high and sounded it out with a golden trumpet, written on a heavenly scroll. I'd sooner use it to wipe my arse."

At that, Killian had to wonder what strange universe they had stumbled into, where Flint was the one (even very grudgingly) considering giving up the fight, and Sam was the one vowing to fight until the bitter end. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder, feeling the tension wound like a damaged clockwork to the point of explosion. "Sam," he said quietly. "Talk to us, eh?"

Sam's expression flickered, as if he was keeping himself on fierce lid, but it showed here and there, like cracks in a broken mirror. "I don't want to," he said, after a moment. "I already had to tell the whole of bloody Antigua the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was the only chance I had to buy some time, to make it known, and I did what I had to, but. . . I saved the island folk with you two because I knew it was the right thing to do. But they heard that, they all heard that, and doubtless most of them thought it was exactly as Hume said, that I deserved it, and that I should have died, hanged as a sodomite and a traitor. I know who I am. I know who I want to be. I'm proud of it. But that doesn't mean that I am not bloody fucking tempted to give into that demon, just for a little while, and make them pay."

"I know." Killian's voice was a whisper. "Sam, I know. I can't sit here on some high horse and tell you not to, or that it would be a terrible mistake, or that you could not be forgiven if you did. I fell far further than you, and did far worse. But you – "

"Yes, I know." Sam looked up at him with hot, hollow eyes. "You both think I'm better than you, more worth saving. That I couldn't possibly stoop to your level or even contemplate the things you did, much less carry them out. Well, then. Let this be your enlightenment. I saved Antigua with you, and I am glad that you insisted on it, that you stopped me from doing something I could not take back. But I wish you hadn't. I want them dead, Killian. I want them all dead. Man, woman, and child, everyone who stood there and said nothing, everyone who jeered and threw filth at Robin and I as we were taken to be hanged – everyone who had any part to do with it, innocent or guilty, bystander or soldier or any of them. I want them all dead. I know it would solve nothing and it would not be justice and it would not be anything I would ever savor or enjoy, that it would only make it worse, but I still do. I want to kill them all myself. And that bloody – fucking – _terrifies_ me."

Flint made a soft noise in his throat, moving up on Sam's other side. He put his hand on the chair back, not quite touching Sam's, and finally said, "Aye. I thought you might."

"Sometimes it's not about what's rational," Killian continued softly, when neither of the others offered anything more. "Even if you know it's not who you are, you still want it so much it hurts. Both of us have fought that battle, over and over. We can't do it for you, but. . . there _is_ an other side to reach. I wouldn't have believed it if you told me before, and you did, many times. But there's me, and Emma, and your godson or goddaughter. Flint and Miranda. You could go back to Cape Cod and retrieve your Mariah, if she's decided to defy her father and come with you. We're your family, and you're part of ours. That's why we saved you. And we would again."

Sam inhaled a slow, rattling breath, looking down at his hand shaking on the chair. Then he glanced up, with something too worn and exhausted and angry to be a smile. "Aye. Well. It's good of you to say so, to be sure. But as for now, there are other matters to attend to."

With that, he straightened up, crossed the cabin in a few swift strides, and ducked out onto the deck, as Flint and Killian exchanged a look, said nothing, and followed him. After a brief confederation of the crews, it was voted upon to put the damaged ship alight, with the valuable hostages partitioned out – Abigail on the _Walrus,_ the captain on the _Whydah,_ and a few of the rich merchants traveling to Charlestown aboard the _Jolie,_ where Lancelot and the Maroons could have the especial pleasure of ordering them around. When this was done, they set sail back for their hideout by the cay, looking at the bright beacon of the burning ship in the distance. Tortola was a shadow rising out of the warm black sea, and after considerable pacing on the deck did nothing to solve his turbulent thoughts, Killian gave up, shucked his jacket and boots, and climbed over the side – the water here was sufficiently deep to float the ships, but shallow enough that after a few minutes of swimming, his feet touched sandy bottom. He waded out of the breakers, the warm tropical wind drying him even as he walked, and up onto the beach.

Not long later, he heard the creak and thump of a boat hoist, a small shape detached from the _Walrus,_ made a call at the _Whydah,_ and when it rode into sight shortly thereafter, he was not surprised to see Flint and Sam at the oars. They jumped overboard, hauled it onto the sand, and Flint tossed Killian a flask of rum, while Sam gathered a few armloads of driftwood and built a campfire. They sat down around it, passing the rum, listening to the night, until Flint said, "Emma knows Charlestown well. She used to live there in Leopold White's house, and is familiar with the harbor and waterfront. Perhaps we could consult her for advice on this whole fucking Abigail situation, or better yet, have her come with us and sort it out."

"Emma is heavily pregnant and not liable to be going anywhere for some time yet," Killian said levelly. "Aye, she knows Charlestown, but I'd not want to see her put herself in such danger by returning as a pirate – if it would even be something she wants to do, I'm sure that place holds very few good memories. So what? You've decided to ask for Lord Ashe's pardon after all?"

Flint's eyes smoked like the embers of the fire. "I need to speak with Miranda first."

"You know what she'd say, don't you?" Killian regarded him intently. "She's been trying to tell you, over and over. Mate, be honest. If that was the price of your future with her – crossing your fingers and saying whatever they want you to, to get that bloody piece of paper and that little house by the sea – would you really not even consider paying it?"

"Of course I'd fucking consider it." It seemed torn out of Flint, sharp and angry, but just as tired and resigned and heartbroken, wondering just as much if everything he had done had ever been worth it. "Do you think I want to lose her? She's the only reason I'd even entertain the possibility. But she's been wronged as much as I have – worse, in a way. At least I've been able to fight back, while she's only had her revenge indirectly and circuitously, in bits and pieces, in whatever cold scraps I can procure for her. I don't know if it's been enough."

"Maybe she thinks it is," Killian said quietly. "More than enough. Maybe she would rather you live with wisdom, than die with vengeance. And if that means asking Lord Peter – "

"I'm not _asking_ him for anything," Flint said, with bitter finality. "I'm with Sam on that. But if we could work out a way to get to Charlestown without being instantly hanged, return Abigail to her father, remind him delicately of our old association and see if the logical conclusion then presents itself. . . I'll take the fucking pardon if he offers it. I'm not a total idiot. But I'm not going to sit up like a dog at the supper table and beg. He can humbly suggest it as a token of his gratitude, in recognition of our old friendship, and not in the slightest because I have anything to atone for or confess to. I will not kneel and grovel and make a mockery of everything that Miranda and I have lost and fought and suffered for. I simply won't."

"Aye, well," Killian said, still quietly. "We can hope for that, at least."

Flint looked at him with a twisted smile. "And if you've taken over the role of the optimist of the bunch, aren't you planning to trot along and benevolently oversee it?"

"No." Killian took another sip of the rum when Sam passed it his way. "I'm not going to Charlestown, or anywhere else. I'm heading to Puerto Rico, trading the _Jolie_ to Blackbeard for whatever smaller ship I'm sure he's captured in the meantime, and returning to Emma."

If he had announced that he had developed a keen interest in Morris dancing, or thought that Robert Gold was not such a bad fellow after all and was probably just misunderstood, it would have been difficult for his companions to look more flabbergasted. "I'm sorry," Flint said. "You're doing _what?"_

"As I said. I can no longer have it both ways. I led my men into piracy, and I can hardly damn well lead them out of it again. I've been mutinied on, had to kill the man who was the nearest thing to a father that Liam and I had during our time in the Navy, lost half of them to Hornigold and his backstabbing, and will soon lose the other half from their own recognition that they too can get rid of me if they please – not for being too much of a pirate, but rather, not enough of one. I had to come out here and take a prize, or they would have done it already, and I can't do it again. Whatever I become, whatever I do, some bloody sparkly stuff doesn't matter to me as much as Emma does, as much as our child does. They want to be pirates, and I have no right to once more take their lives away from them. I'll sail off to find Blackbeard, trade the ship, and they can go on their way. I'll go on mine, to her. I don't intend to hear any debate on this."

"Give up your ship," Flint repeated. "To _Blackbeard."_

"Aye. I'm sure he'll put it to good use. My men can sail with the legendary terror of the high seas and win all the plunder they want." Killian stared into the fire. "But I can't ask them to follow me back to the Maroons' island, where there's nothing for them and where a bloody lot of them left in the first place because they wanted to go pirating, just because of me. Emma is my future. I do this for her. They can see to their own."

"Fucking hell." Flint rubbed his grimy knuckles over his beard. "So that question about what I was willing to give up for Miranda – "

"Was not entirely theoretical, no." Killian looked up, meeting the older man's green eyes. "I don't ask either of you to come with me. You do what you must."

Flint shot a sidelong glance at Sam. "And what is that for you, then?"

"I'm not going to Charlestown." Sam downed a long swig of rum. "I assume both of you can understand that I've had more than bloody enough of any place that wants to hang me on sight. Nor do I feel any inclination to return to Nassau, led like a hog for slaughter to that foul cesspit. If there's a battle against Gold, I'll be there, you know that. But I don't have any appetite to sit quietly and wait for it. There are prizes to be taken here. I'm a pirate. I mean to be one."

This time it was Flint and Killian's turn to exchange looks, at the realization that while they were considering – or had already decided on – giving up this life to build a future with the women they loved, Sam was instead of a mind to plunge even more deeply into it. Killian felt almost as Liam must have, seeing someone you loved follow the darkness down, when it seemed as if it was the only salvation, the only way forward, the only chance of winning anything back. He did not blame Sam in the least for it, and certainly thought there was nothing wrong with it, but he still ached unbearably at the idea, at the reality of his own inability to change it. Again as Liam must, that acceptance of his futility, no matter how hard he wanted, and had tried, to save him. That in the end, it had to be one's own choice, and living with it.

"All right," Killian said at last, very quietly. "As you say, Sam."

They sat on the beach until the rum was gone, the night was getting on, and the sea was still and glassy. Killian permitted Flint and Sam to row him back to the _Jolie,_ rather than repeating his midnight swim, and climbed aboard in a distinctly melancholy mood. If it had to be this ship or Emma, the choice was not even that difficult, and he felt clearer of mind and purpose, now that he had resolved to leave behind anything that would stop him from getting back to her in time, cutting himself loose of this snarled fishing net of politics and pirates and prizes and power. It was simpler this way. Cleaner. Truer. But there was no way to wish away the ache of losing the _Jolie._ It had been Killian's home since the day he first saw HMS _Imperator_ at port in Bristol, fresh-painted and flying the new Union Jack, and he could barely believe that she was his, that he and Liam were commissioned to sail her and command her and do right by her. If it was merely a question of getting to the Maroons' island, Flint could take him there, as he intended to rendezvous with Miranda before commencing the dangerous journey to Charlestown. But that would then leave Killian without a ship of his own, and the only way to get one, take Emma and their child to safety, and let the _Jolie's_ crew continue the path they had chosen, sailing as pirates beneath the black flag for all the treasure and glory they could get their hands on, was to barter her to Blackbeard. Hell, the man had said he should do as much, at their first meeting. _I doubt either of us expected it to be like this._

Killian wandered through the ship like an unquiet ghost, trying not to wake the crew. Found a spot deep in the hold, and leaned against the strakes of the hull, hearing the water lapping on the far side, the soft creaks of the beams. Ran his fingers over the worn pegs and caulking that held her together, breathing in the scent of her, closing his eyes hard against the stinging wetness. He wondered who her next captain would be. Lancelot? It would not be the first time a quartermaster was elevated in rank, whether by coup or by choice. But as he still did not know much about seafaring, and was more valuable in his role as mediator between Maroons and ex-Navy sailors, it would likely be some underling of Blackbeard's. _Be good to her, or I'll track you down and throttle you in your sleep, you bastard._

Killian pressed a silent kiss to the timbers. Then he turned, climbed up to the deck, and went to the wheel, caressing it, molding the shape and feel of it into his mind, holding it with hand and hook. He wasn't ready for tomorrow. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to Sam. He wasn't ready to tell the men that he was leaving them, even if they got to carry on. He wasn't ready to give up this ship. This life. Everything.

And yet.

He was ready to go back to Emma. Ready to see her head turn, her face light, to taste her mouth when she kissed him, to glimpse the look in her eyes when he told her that he was back, and he was home, and he would be there for her, that this time she would not be alone, that they would see their child brought into the world together. There would be more to face after that, of course. There always was. But the rest could wait.

The wind was steady off the water, ruffling his hair and stealing the tears from his eyes before they could fall. The _Walrus_ and the _Whydah_ were dark shadows to either side. The moon was huge and luminous and beautiful as the most priceless pearl, and the stars fairer than any diamonds. He remembered the warmth of fire, and rum, and the night water, and asking Flint if Miranda was worth it, and his searing desperation to save Sam one more time and yet how, at last, he began to understand Liam, truly. That he could not save anyone but himself. Love and loss and hope and grief and the end of everything – and yet, still, the beginning.

Killian Jones took one more shaky breath, squared his shoulders, and, for the last time, went below.

* * *

Emma was in the garden when she heard excited voices, the buzz among the villagers that could only mean a ship had been sighted in the harbor, and she sat back on her heels with a long-felt sigh of relief. She had had to do something with herself, not just sit and welter like a sow in farrow, and picking weeds and preparing for the spring planting had proved as useful an occupation as any, as the Maroons were still politely and understandably dubious of letting an outsider, a pirate and a white Englishwoman, any further into the fabric of their life and rituals. They were nothing but courteous to her, and Emma had begun to forge a tentative friendship with Tiana, Merlin's young assistant, even as she remained wary of any more attempted conversations with Merlin himself. But she had certainly begun to feel the loneliness – Henry was usually off playing with the other children, rather than being stuck with her when they still did not know each other very well – and as this was rather longer than she had expected Liam, Regina, and Miranda to take, Emma felt a weight of constant low-level worry lift off her shoulders. She was determinedly not thinking about the others. It would drive her mad.

Emma clambered clumsily to her feet, brushed the dirt off, and opened the garden gate, as it was fenced in sharpened stakes to prevent the livestock from wandering in and eating it. She followed the current of people to the cave, which served as the guard tower and citadel for the village, and when she ducked into the damp stone coolness, she stopped short at the first familiar face she recognized. _"Will?"_

He jumped, turned around, and gaped at her, then fought through the throngs to embrace her – as best he could, and rather unexpectedly, as they had rarely openly expressed affection and friendship to each other before, no matter how long they had both relied on it. Yet even as Emma was relieved to see him, a sudden cold dread began to creep up her throat. "Where are the others? Are they coming? Are you – "

"Relax," Will said hastily. "They're on their way. It, though. It's. . . complicated."

Emma did not precisely like the tenor of that, but just then there was a second murmur at the cave mouth, the hanging vines were pushed aside, and she felt her heart wrench in half, then nearly burst from her chest, as she laid eyes on Killian and Flint – both looking considerably rougher for wear, but intact. She sped across the flowstone floor, throwing herself (again so much as was possible) into Killian's arms, grasping his face between her hands, and kissing him soundly, once and then again. He held her firmly around the shoulders, eyes oddly bright as his fingers tangled in her hair, getting a good look at her, feeling her solid and warm and real. "Emma," he breathed, even as she kissed him again. "Emma, bloody hell, it's you, it's you."

"Of course it's me." Not letting go of him, tucking herself into his side, Emma coughed and exchanged a coolly cordial nod with Flint, who was looking amused. Then the dread of earlier began to make its resurgence as she glanced back and forth. "Where – where's Sam?"

"He. . ." Killian hesitated. "He's alive. We saved him from Fort Berkeley, in the very bloody nick of time. Flint shot Hume, killed the bastard, and we made it away. We even reconnoitered with the _Whydah_ and got Sam back aboard his own ship. Then we sailed out to Tortola in search of prizes, where Blackbeard and Vane left us after our little misadventure in St. John's – long story, tell you later – and we found one, but it's got somewhat of a wrinkle. At any rate, Sam. . . didn't want to come back. After everything that's happened to him, he wanted to stay and just be a pirate for a while, see if it cleared his head. I tried to bring him back to you as I promised, love. I swear I did. But he – he's not the same. I don't know that he will be for a while."

Emma opened and shut her mouth. There were a number of things that she could have said to that, even as she grappled with the unfathomable idea of losing her dearest friend, of possibly never seeing him again, that Sam could be saved in body, but potentially not in mind. All she could manage was, "But I – but he – "

"I know. I'm sorry. It's a bloody mess. But we, well. Now we're here, and – "

"What, with both the _Jolie_ and the _Walrus?_ Are you planning to – "

There was a pause, as Killian and Flint exchanged half a look. Then Killian said, "No. Just with the _Walrus._ I have a small trading brig, ten guns, with a skeleton crew."

"What? Only that? What happened to the _Jolie?_ To your men?"

"They're fine. I – never mind that. They're free to go on pirating, and I. . . I've made a decision that my future lies outside that world. My new ship – I've named her the _Jolly Roger,_ I thought I'd stick with the theme – will be enough to get us somewhere else, somewhere we can start again. If that is indeed what you want?"

"I – yes, I – " Emma was almost dazed with joy, even as she was well aware that this could not be the entire story. "Your brother – he was going to, at any rate, but – how would you get a pardon, or even a fair hearing-out from a – "

"That is precisely what we need to discuss," Flint said grimly. "Where's Miranda?"

"She. . ." Emma yet again felt that cold finger of foreboding at the nape of her neck, wanting to tighten hold and strangle her. "That is what I was just about to say. Liam, Regina, and Miranda went to Jamaica to pay a call on Lord Archibald Hamilton, in hopes of securing me a pardon – they intended to blackmail him with the Jacobites' fortunes going bad, offer him protection from Gold's inevitable retaliation, in exchange. But they're not back yet, so – "

"Jamaica?" Killian and Flint said in unison. "Is that a good idea?"

"It wasn't mine, I swear." With that, Emma had to explain the entire process that had led to this decision, Miranda's insistence, Liam's (reluctant) acquiescence, and their departure over a fortnight ago, from which they had not yet returned. At that, an ominous shadow crossed both their faces, even as she said weakly, "That doesn't mean something _is_ wrong. It could have taken extra time for any number of – "

"With Jamaica? I don't think I care for those odds." Flint's voice was close to a growl. "And Miranda – she just decided to up and – ?"

"She said she was prepared to go with me and the children to Charlestown and Boston." Emma chose her words carefully. "That if it came down to it, that was the future she would choose. Not more fighting. That she was past the place of standing it."

Flint looked rather strange, and almost afraid. He had come far too close to losing Miranda once already, after Liam Junior shot her in the brothel, and yet perhaps he had not quite realized that despite her survival, he was in danger of losing her in another way. He had built what was left of his world on her, his island of strength and stability and the promise of normality in the blackened whirlwind of his life, and without her, there would be no center at all, nothing to fight for but the endless fight itself, devouring and unceasing and insatiable. Then he said, "It's funny you should mention Charlestown. I have a particular hostage aboard my ship. Abigail Ashe, daughter of Lord Peter Ashe, governor of Carolina Colony and resident of that very city. Where you, of course, lived for several years, in the home of Leopold White. You know the place well."

"I – yes, I do, but – the governor's _daughter?_ How is that going to – "

"She was traveling aboard the ship we captured. Her father is an. . . old friend of mine. Did Miranda ever mention him to you?"

"She might have, at some point, but I don't remember for certain." Emma frowned. "One of your old friends, from London? From – before?"

"Yes," Flint said stiffly. "That was why I was hoping to consult with Miranda. They may exist, if we return Abigail unharmed to her father, the slightest possibility that he could grant both Jones and myself that bloody fucking bit of paper from the English Crown that says they forgive us. _They_ forgive _us._ As if that's how it works. But if that happens, then there is also the chance that myself and Miranda, and you two, could retire from this life and make a real home somewhere. I have a good bit of treasure. We wouldn't go wanting."

Emma was honestly astonished, both at the fact that Captain James Flint of all people would suggest this course of action with apparent sincerity, and that he would be willing to make a home with them, that he wanted to build the family that he and Miranda had never had. That perhaps Miranda's despair of ever saving him from his own demons, of salvaging anything from the wreckage, was not entirely without any hope of mending, or past any chance of repair. Emma was surprised and moved and very pleased, as she reached out to touch his arm. "I know Miranda – and we – would like that. Very much."

Flint nodded, almost shyly, and glanced away. "But," he said after a moment, the softness gone from his voice and only the steel remaining. "That would be far easier to decide if she was here. And yet you tell me that she has gone to Jamaica, and that she is late in coming back."

"I. . . yes." There was not much way around that fact. "Does Gold have any ships he could have already sent to apprehend Hamilton for treason, though?"

"We sank the _Scarborough,_ " Flint said, then added grudgingly, "Well, Blackbeard did, but only since Jones ordered him to. I doubt the _Windsor_ could make it to Jamaica that fast, and as she's the only operable Navy warship in these waters, I don't see Gold sending her far from Antigua until his reinforcements arrive – otherwise he'd be undefended. But he can't know for certain that Hamilton is a Jacobite, can he? Aye, it's been a few months since Sheriffmuir, but that hardly connects Lord Archibald definitively to their misfortune. Unless – "

"Unless," Emma said slowly. "Unless he didn't need to wait for proof. If he had an inside source, a henchman who recently changed his alliances and knows everything about Lord Archibald's Jacobite activities, since he himself helped conduct them. The most perfect and devastating betrayal he could possibly devise. Really, that doesn't sound like anyone we know?"

"What – " It took Killian only a moment. "Oh, Jesus bloody Christ. Jennings wasn't in Antigua. Sam said he never saw the _Bathsheba_ there. If so, Jennings might have been sent to deal with the Governor of Jamaica personally, because who better to take him down than his old privateer? And if Liam, Regina, and Miranda accidentally sailed into the middle of that. . ."

"Fuck." Flint's face went white. He knew as well as all of them that if so, they themselves could not reach Jamaica, even assuming they set sail immediately, had a good wind, and ran into no more disasters en route, for at least another three or four days. Not to mention, at this point, whatever Jennings had done was already accomplished, and too late to be changed or stopped. "They did this for – for what? For your _pardon?"_

"I said, it wasn't my idea!" Emma fought to stave off panic. "I told Miranda not to go, I warned her that things always went wrong in Jamaica! The Maroons captured them a Bermuda sloop, a light, small merchanter with only a few guns. If the _Bathsheba_ caught it by surprise in the Kingston harbor, it would have blown it out of the water."

There was a communal horrible silence. It was plain that since the stolen sloop would stand no chance against a heavily armed and blood-maddened Jennings, the best they could hope for was that Liam, Regina, and Miranda had not been aboard said ship when it was attacked, and might still be alive, but trapped on Jamaica with no way to get home. Whether they had managed to obtain the pardon for Emma beforehand, or if it did not matter since Lord Archibald was chained up in the _Bathsheba's_ brig awaiting transportation and sentence on Antigua, was impossible to say. The governor's aristocratic family connections, wealth, title, and position would likely save him from the headsman on Tower Hill, but as it was rumored that they had executed Jacobite leaders with equal pedigrees very recently, that was no guaranteed wager. In any event, no pardon penned and sealed by a convicted traitor would be worth the paper it was written on.

"Fuck Jennings up the arse, tear him a new hole, and fuck him up that one too," Flint said after a moment, expressing the prevailing sentiment concisely. "So – what? We sail there after our _last_ bloody misadventure on Antigua barely resulted in us getting away with our skins? We go to Jamaica, we'll likely all die too, but if Miranda is there, if that foul fucking shitstain is still bestriding the earth – and of course, Jones, you just traded away your ship with its sixty guns to Blackbeard! I hope your precious future is worth that rinkidink toy boat you got in return!"

"What?" Emma turned to Killian with a start. "You – you gave the _Jolie_ to _Blackbeard?_ Why?"

"It. . ." Killian looked evasive. "Never you mind that, love. It was my decision, and the best one to be made at the time. I was planning to leave this life, I wasn't counting on having another rescue mission to run. But since I do. . ."

"So?" Flint said, even more bitterly. "What happened to that grand pirate coalition you won, Jones? No Blackbeard, no Vane, no Bellamy. Not even your own ship. Just me, and mine. Perhaps it's best you want to leave this life, if you're this much of a miserable failure at it!"

Killian's eyes darkened. "Says the man who has lost his command at least twice in the last half year, and wouldn't have gotten it back without Emma saving his arse several more times – "

"Enough! Both of you!" Emma interposed herself forcefully between them, holding them at arms' length. "Killian loves Liam, Flint and I love Miranda, and we can all agree on wanting Jennings dead, no matter what. We still have far more common ground than not, so don't leap for each other's throats and lose what we do have. Stop. Please. We need to think."

Killian and Flint both huffed out angry breaths and gave each other pointed looks to remind them that they _were_ watching, but consented not to start an immediate civil war on the spot. Hard to imagine that just a few minutes ago, they had been speaking of all making a home together, but that was the ever-towering reminder of how difficult a task it truly was, how many struggles remained. Emma thought again of what Miranda had said, about forever vainly hoping that one more battle would make the difference, but it never did. They had rescued Sam from Antigua, but still lost him, and now they were faced with the prospect of having to fight Jennings yet again, when Liam, Regina, and Miranda might already be dead. And even if they won that one, Gold's Navy reinforcements would then be arriving, and. . . the only way to count how many battles remained seemed to be to calculate which one they would not survive. If Miranda _was_ dead, there went any chance of peaceably retiring from the pirate life with a pardon and Flint's money to live on. It still was not fair. Was so profoundly, incredibly, unbearably unfair, and yet. That did not change a single, solitary, bloody thing. It must be faced, and dealt with.

They moved off to a corner of the cave where they could sit, and Emma's faint grunt as she did so was a further reminder that nothing had changed as concerned her immediate circumstances, and lack of ability to get herself into physical scrapes. Killian glanced at her sidelong, thinking the same thing, as a frown furrowed his dark brows. "You'd still have to stay here, love. Flint and I would handle this. But. . ." He paused. "I didn't come back to you only to leave you behind again. After all, it could be that this has nothing to do with Jennings, and Liam and the women just ran into a contrary wind or something – you know how hard it can be to sail west to east in the Indies, if the trades aren't cooperating. If so, if we rushed headlong to Jamaica on some ill-advised rescue mission, we could be the ones to end up in the trap."

"I'm not willing to risk Miranda's life on it," Flint said grimly. "Stay hovering by the cradle if you want, Jones, but I'm going."

Killian opened his mouth, clearly about to say something else. But at that moment, a sudden hush fell over the cave, heads turned, and everyone looked at the entrance as the vines rustled aside and Ursula, Poseidon's daughter, stepped through. Her eyes flicked over the newcomers, over Flint, Emma, and Killian – and then, sharply, back to them. She regarded them without expression for the longest moment, then raised her voice and also a hand, pointing at the latter. "That man is no longer welcome on this island."

The Maroons swiveled to look at them as well, as Emma frowned – Killian had made glancing mention of some wrong he had done the chieftain's daughter, but not the details, and that was why he thought it better not to hazard an in-person appearance. Too late now, though. Ursula's face and voice remained calm, but cold and strong as ice, until Emma, herself a woman risen beyond usual station to command men as their captain, thought she could very well see this slender, pretty girl becoming an almighty force to be reckoned with. "You," Ursula said, indicating Emma, "are welcome to stay, as we offered our hospitality and sanctuary to you, and I would not punish a woman, especially one so near her time, for a man's misdeeds. But Killian Jones is a liar, a traitor, and a murderer, who swears oaths he never has any intention of keeping. Perhaps you recall, _Captain?"_

"I. . . do." Killian's face was ashen, but he made no move to deny Ursula's charges, and rose to his feet to answer. "I behaved with an utter lack of honesty or restraint or respect in regard to you the last time I was here. You are well within your rights to want me off your land."

Ursula looked somewhat surprised, having clearly prepared for confrontation instead of conciliation, but this did not change her mind. "Good. That will make this easier. You have until sundown to be off this island, Captain Hook, and while I cannot change the minds of those of our brothers serving aboard your ship, I do not advise you to return even in their company. If so – "

"The Maroons are no longer my men." Killian must have been hideously aware of all the watching eyes, but he straightened his shoulders and did his best to speak plainly. "Nor is the _Jolie Rouge_ my ship. They are masters of their own destiny now, quite apart from mine."

Ursula continued to look at him with that opaque expression, nobody else daring to interrupt. Then she jerked her head. "Good. Go."

Emma caught at Killian's hand as he took a step. She was not about to insist that he stay against Ursula's express wishes, but if Flint went to Jamaica and Killian went God knew where, that still left Emma stuck here by herself, possibly indefinitely. Besides, it was her pardon at stake. She was the reason Miranda, Liam, and Regina had gotten themselves into whatever scrape they had. Just then, she felt the decision click over, quite clearly, in her head. "I'm coming with you."

Killian looked down at her, aghast. "What? Bloody hell, Swan, no, you can't. If the child – "

"I've lived on ships for quite a few years now. It wouldn't be the end of the world if I gave birth on one. I'd rather do this with you there, somewhere I knew, than alone, with only strangers. I don't want us to be separated again either. Killian. Please."

He continued to look at her, tired and troubled, not willing to expose her to such danger occasioned by his own bad behavior – after all, Ursula was not kicking her off the island, only him. She could still stay here with the benefit of their medicines and wisewomen to assist at the birth, far from the dangerous and uncertain prospect of doing so belowdecks on a ship at sea with no midwife. They could likely find one in Jamaica, and she was not so close to her time that it was an imminent threat on the voyage out, but counting on anything in Jamaica was a risky business, and they of course had no idea what might await them when they arrived. Killian opened his mouth with the clear intention of refusing. "Emma, I – "

She pulled herself upright, took hold of his head, and kissed him hard, arms coming around his neck, their eyes half-closing, noses and foreheads brushing, breathing each other. "Killian," she whispered. "I'm coming with you."

He remained irresolute a final moment, then sighed. "All right, lass," he said, very quietly. "As you wish."

The sun was skimming the western horizon, the shadows of the jungle twisting long and black as strokes of India ink, by the time Emma and Henry arrived on the beach and beheld Killian's new ship. Compared to the heavy three-masted man-o'-war _Jolie Rouge_ , this one was, as Flint had scorned, absurdly tiny. She could barely be more than sixty feet from stem to stern, only two masts and a spar, and carried what seemed quite an underwhelming array of weaponry. She looked as if she would be fast, at least – faster than the _Walrus,_ and possibly the _Bathsheba_ as well, and perhaps if that was the case, Flint could handle any actual shooting. Since Killian and Emma were not about to just lark away without a care in the world while he sailed to the snake's nest of Jamaica alone, and because of Emma's own decision that she could not remain idle when her own pardon was the cause of this mess, the three of them were intending to track down Liam, Regina, and Miranda if at all possible. It could be that they would simply cross paths with them on the way back, which was the most optimistic appraisal of the situation, but not one that any of them put a great deal of stock in. One way or another, there would almost certainly be trouble.

"Are you sure you don't want to sail on the _Walrus?"_ Killian asked, joining them in a soft clatter of rocks as he slid down the bluff. "It's quite a bit more comfortable, and there's Abigail Ashe aboard, for company. I suppose Flint's plans to return her to Charlestown will have to wait until we get all this sorted out."

"No, I want to sail with you." Emma looked at him steadily. "You chose to do what you did for me. I'm doing the same."

Killian coughed, glancing away, but could not entirely hide a shy smile as they made their way out to his new _Jolly Roger,_ and he gave her a hand aboard. It was manned by a patchwork retinue: a few of his old sailors still personally loyal to him, a handful of Maroons, and Will, who of course had chosen to throw in his lot on this accord. He waved at Emma as she hauled herself up onto the deck. "Good to be sailin' with you again, Captain."

"I – yes, it is." Emma could not deny that. Still, she did hope very much that they were not going to be attacked, for any number of reasons – not least the fact that there couldn't be more than fifteen men on the crew. Bloody hell, _she_ had started out with more, and she had been the lady pirate considered a joke and a dumping ground for the sailors everyone else didn't want. Flint was indeed going to have to act as their guard dog if they hit any serious opposition, and while she thought he would at least _try_ to protect them, he was also not the most comforting individual to trust one's personal safety to. If things got too heated, it was entirely possible that Flint would just make a break for it, and leave them to fend for themselves.

It was dusk by the time they raised anchor, and the stars were coming out as Killian took a heading and began to chart their course. Emma went below to get Henry settled in one of the extra bunks, then made her way to the captain's cabin – somewhat of a trick to get down the ladder when she couldn't see her feet – and sat at the table, gingerly stretching the ache in her back. It _was_ good to be at sea again, even in this confoundedly tiny ship, especially since she could essentially act as co-captain, and for the part of her that would never stop missing the _Blackbird,_ it was a balm to her soul. But the man who had sunk the _Blackbird_ (to name only the least of his crimes) was now almost certainly standing in their way again, between Emma's entire future, any chance of that pardon, that home she could just see with Killian and their child and Henry, Flint and Miranda and Sam – she would not give up on Sam – and still wanted to fight for. No matter what happened now, it was better than sitting on the island alone, powerless, only waiting for news either good or bad. This way, at least she would know that she had done everything she could.

After a few more minutes, the ladder creaked, and she looked up as Killian's boots hit the worn planks with a thump. Seeing her, he smiled wanly. "As I said, love. It's not much."

"It's fine. At least we're together." Emma lit the candles on the table, and beckoned him to join her, which he did. She laid her hand over his, as he turned it to close her fingers against his palm. "You. . . you really traded your ship for me?"

"Aye." He glanced up, blue eyes the color of the evening sea in the low light. "The _Jolie,_ the pirates' life, it's. . . it's what I became, but it's not everything I am, Emma. Not any more. I still don't know what our future is, but I want it. More than I've ever wanted anything."

"Me. . . me too." Emma wet her lips, almost too shy to look at him, even here in this quiet moment in the cabin with nothing afire, no one being shot at, no one (as yet) in imminent danger of death or dismemberment. Just the two of them, and the small stirrings of the child under her breastbone, and the candlelight. Her fingers tightened in his. "Killian. I – I wanted to tell you something. When it's just us, while I have the chance. I. . ."

He looked up at her, waiting. "Aye?"

"That I. . ." Emma hesitated, wrestling herself, trying to force it out. It was so simple, only those three words, so obvious in everything they had done and continued to do for each other. So clear in her mind every time she looked at him, the echoes of him both literal and physical in her body, the way it burned like a bonfire in her heart. "Killian, I. . ."

He continued to wait, patiently.

Emma swallowed. "Wanted. . . to thank you for it. For coming back for me and Henry. It was. . . very selfless of you."

Something that might have been disappointment flickered in his eyes, ever so briefly, but he glanced down so that she did not have to see it, scratching behind his ear. "Aye, well. You're welcome, love."

Emma nodded, biting her lip. Then she leaned toward him, hoping to mend with deeds what she could not quite manage with words, and pulled his mouth to hers. Knitted her fingers in his tousled dark hair, feeling the _Roger_ starting to catch the wind, on their way to whatever was waiting for them in the darkness, whatever destiny. Better together than apart. No matter what.

No matter how.

* * *

"Well?" Jennings said, when the ghastly silence persisted. "No friendly word for me, after how long it's been since we've seen each other? Not even you, my lord? True, I'm here to arrest you either way, but niceties are niceties."

"H-Henry." Lord Archibald gripped the back of his chair, shooting a look at Liam as if questioning whether the two of them were somehow in league, if Liam had masterminded this appearance in a last-ditch attempt to force a second pardon. "Please. Don't do anything foolish. You can still come back to work for me – I'll pay you double, I need a good man at my side what with the – "

"Oh, I know exactly what." Jennings leaned insolently against the wall. "But while I am grateful to you for starting my career, I'm afraid I am well beyond such small-time employment. Not with what Lord Robert has planned for this place, for all of you. And believe me, you can't come close to what he's paying me. Any other excuses, or should we get on with it?"

Lord Archibald shot a desperate glance at Liam, as if to remind him that he had, not ten minutes earlier, sworn to protect him from his enemies in exchange for the pardon. This was somewhat faster than Liam had expected to be called upon, but he certainly wasn't about to let Jennings grab Hamilton and sail off scot-free. However, the only weapon that he, Miranda, and Regina had between the three of them was Regina's gun, as it was hardly proper to dress for battle when attending a polite audience with the governor, and Jennings was wearing his cutlass, a full bandolier of long-barreled dueling pistols, and a heavy blunderbuss slung over his shoulder. They would have only that one chance to take him out, assuming Liam could even get his hands on it without Jennings shooting him first, unless Lord Archibald had some helpfully hidden musket or saber or something of the sort in the office. By the looks of things, he didn't.

Seeing Liam's eyes flick to Regina, Jennings took a quick step, drew one of the pistols, and pointed it at his head. "I already shot your brother," he remarked, "so I wouldn't mind going for the set. But you, Mistress Mills, kick that gun over here, unless watching murder is the sort of thing that makes you wet. I do intend to find out later, by the way. Now."

Regina hesitated, utterly loathingly, staring at the man that she had gone behind Liam's back to free in Boston. It was impossible to say what she was thinking or feeling apart from rage, dark gaze fixed on the gun to Liam's head as she slowly put her own on the floor and pushed it toward Jennings with her foot. He knelt a fraction to pick it up, never taking his eyes off Liam or giving him a chance to jump him, examined it admiringly, and then thrust it into his belt. "So, then. Hamilton, if I could be persuaded _not_ to arrest you since I found three bigger traitors here instead, surely you'd tell me what they were up to?"

"A pardon," Lord Archibald blurted out immediately. "They wanted a pardon for Emma Swan, the pirate captain who – "

"Oh, yes. I am _most_ well-acquainted with her." Jennings grinned. He seemed to be genuinely enjoying himself, completely relaxed and in his element, until Liam thought of how he had compared the man to the Horseman of War and how utterly, chillingly true it was. "I daresay we're almost friends now, aren't we? I'll be downright sad to kill you. Speaking of which – " he cocked his head as footsteps came thundering down the corridor, the door opened again, and a dozen of his men appeared behind him, armed to the teeth and leering – "time to go. Don't worry about your ship, we've rather made hash of it. Oh, you too, Governor. Afraid it's going to be a merry foursome after all. Take them."

Lord Archibald's mouth dropped open and stayed that way. Liam had been furiously trying to catch his eye – the governor was, after all, a fellow former captain of the Royal Navy, and the two of them might have had a chance of going after Jennings bare-handed, even if it was liable to get one or both shot, long enough to at least let the women escape. But hearing that Jennings had already destroyed their ship, as well as the arrival of reinforcements, put paid to that plan. There was nothing for Liam, Regina, and Miranda to do but submit to being marched out of the governor's mansion, Lord Archibald bumping along behind them. He seemed too stunned by the ferocity of Jennings' betrayal to fight back at all, even if he bloody well should have expected it from a man like that one. There was undoubtedly some important message here about those who lay down with dogs getting fleas, but as the fleas, and the resulting misfortune, were general, Liam did not particularly feel like pointing it out.

When they arrived at the docks, smoke was still rising in a dark column from the wreckage of their sloop, sails spread ghostly on the water from the splintered mast – the _Bathsheba's_ gun ports were open, leaving no doubt whatsoever about how the vessel had met its end. Liam and the ladies were soundly jeered as they were marched aboard, bits of offal and detritus pelting them from Jennings' crew lining the railings to enjoy their humiliation. As they were well aware that Liam and Regina had taken Jennings captive and tried to drug him into compliance, in addition to all the misadventures with Miranda and Flint, Liam did not even want to think about what depraved torments they might have cooked up in retaliation. _We cannot be taken to Antigua, and we are not likely to survive the voyage, anyway. Gold doesn't know we are even here – he only sent Jennings after Hamilton. Jennings can do whatever he pleases to us, then pitch our corpses over the side, and nobody will be any the wiser. We have to get off this ship, or we will die._

They were taken to the brig and tied, observed by Jennings himself with an expression on his face like a gourmand surveying a vast banquet, unable to decide which dish to sample first. When this was done, he stepped in, considered, then bent down and kissed Miranda – at least until he jerked his head back and touched a finger to the blood on his lip where she had bitten him. "You'll regret that, my dear," he said amiably. "My lads won't be nearly so tender – nor will I, if you fight me. Think about it. We'll be seeing you later."

With that, he got up, sauntered across the brig, and let himself out, locking it behind him, as Miranda was silently shaking with rage and even Regina looked furious on the other woman's behalf (or simply at Jennings more generally, which was also perfectly acceptable). "He's going to kill us," she said to Liam. "Rape the two of us and torture you, then cut our throats and throw our bodies overboard before we ever reach Antigua. We have to get off."

Liam was pleased, if such a thing existed in their present predicament, that their assessments of the situation matched so neatly. There still, however, remained the problem of escaping, and if they should try to collect Lord Archibald as well on their way out. He had sold them out quick as spit when Jennings offered (and lied, naturally) not to turn him in, but if he did get to Gold as a prisoner, the pardon for Emma would be worth nothing, and so would this entire, third-time-running, horrible-things-happen-whenever-we-go-to-Jamaica mad gamble. Furthermore, if Jennings arrived without Hamilton in tow as promised, that might cause Gold a few moments of wondering if Jennings had let his old employer escape in exchange for a fat bribe, and whether he should be sent on future delicate missions. Then they would not be able to prove Lord Archibald's treason immediately, and thus buy at least a little time for the governor to cover his tracks, claim that he had been unjustly and perversely arrested and detained, and possibly, _possibly_ cause someone somewhere to ask a few questions of Gold as well. Who he really was, and what the devil he actually wanted.

 _Bloody hell,_ Liam thought grimly, as the realization came clear in his mind. _We're going to have to rescue the self-serving, slimy bastard, aren't we?_

They sat tensely, listening hard, as the _Bathsheba_ began to move. They would have to wait for nightfall to try anything – as Liam's only plan involved somehow commandeering the ship's boat, if it was still light when they did, Jennings and his gang of miscreants could just fire at them as easily as targets in a shooting gallery. Hope they were still close enough to Jamaica to make it back, head for the island's mountainous and remote interior, and if they were lucky, stumble on another village of Maroons. They might be able to claim sanctuary with them on account of their relationship with the others, and then – well, Liam had not got that far just yet. But at least they would be alive, out of Jennings' hands, and Hamilton's pardon for Emma would still be good. That was a start.

They began to hear noise and shouting and revelry overhead, as apparently Jennings and his men were planning to get good and drunk before they started in with the main event, and this was perfectly bloody fine with Liam. He glanced at Regina, about to ask if she had anything at all that he could work on the ropes around his wrists with, but she was ahead of him. She leaned forward and with her teeth, fished the sharp-pointed corset busk out of her bodice, managing to brace it between her knees. Then with some squirming, they managed to get positioned for him to rasp the ropes against it.

It was maddeningly, nerve-wrackingly slow work, wearing through the fibers bit by bit, and as the afternoon ended and the light began to go, Liam was soon attempting to accomplish it in total darkness. But they finally got it whittled down to a frayed cord, and he worked his wrists until he got some slack, just enough. He gritted his teeth and with all his strength, ripped.

The rope snapped, Liam pulled it off with pounding heart, and seized the busk to start on Regina's bindings, though not before he helped Miranda get hers out of her corset as well. With this determined three-way effort, they got the ladies untied rather faster, and Liam communicated his plan to them, then set to work on the padlock of the brig with the busk (useful bloody things, he might need to keep one around). It took him a while more, but he managed to spring it, easing it off and down so that it did not fall and make a sound. Then he beckoned to Miranda and Regina, the three of them put their shoulders into it, and pushed.

The grate scraped open, and they crawled through on hands and knees, still listening carefully to the noise from above. "I'll get Lord Archibald," Liam whispered. "Do either of you know how to ready a launch?"

Miranda gave him a look reminding him that while she might be a gently born noblewoman in exile, she _had_ lived on a pirate island, as good as married to its most famous captain, for ten years. He nodded hastily, pointing them toward one of the hatches where they could possibly climb up without being seen. They could not wait for the crew to pass out, as they were planning to come down here for their sadistic orgy and thus would discover them escaped, and as the _Bathsheba_ was not _that_ large of a ship and hence would not take long to search, they had to act while the men were drunk and distracted. Liam made sure the women were up and away, then headed for the ladder, stayed low, and moved fast.

A wash of noise hit him broadside as he emerged, from the riotous bacchanal still taking place on the deck. Liam could only get a passing glimpse, which was more than enough, as he edged past the captain's cabin and down the narrow walk – Miranda had told him about the smaller cabin by the stern, the one where she and Emma were kept prisoner for the voyage to Boston, and that was almost certainly where Lord Archibald had been stashed. It was almost completely dark, and Liam fumbled for the lock while hoping that Jennings had not brought a few extra women aboard to be sure there were enough to go around, and one (or more) of the crew had stolen off for a private moment. He did _not_ bloody need to see that, thank you.

When he finally got the lock opened, however, it was indeed the governor inside – who, to say the least, was extremely surprised to see him. Liam hastily unknotted his bonds, seized Lord Archibald by the elbow, warned him with a look to stay silent on pain of instant death, and maneuvered them out. Circling around by the mizzenmast shrouds and coming up on the ship's boat from behind, he could just see Miranda and Regina inside it, trying to figure out how to loose the tackles without causing a clatter that would instantly raise the alarm. For a moment Liam hoped, as he put on a burst of speed and practically threw Lord Archibald into the boat, vaulting in after him – they were going to do it, they were going to vanish off the _Bathsheba_ literally right beneath Jennings' nose, with all his men too busy drinking and carousing to even look around at the shadows flitting away on the edges –

And then, as Liam pulled furiously at the bow hoist, it abruptly loosened – but the stern hoist did not. The boat dropped halfway over the side with a crash, nearly pitching the four of them into the dark sea below, and drink or no drink, Jennings' wastrels were not nearly distracted enough to miss that. There was an instant of stunned silence, then a tumult of shouting and running. The next, furious faces appeared over the rail, guns were ripped from belts and bandoliers and wherever other hiding places, and the privateers opened fire.

Liam twisted madly, managing to get the hull of the boat over them to provide at least some cover from the bullets, which hissed and thumped and pinged against the wood as he struggled to keep their shield in place with one hand and saw at the stern hoist with the other. Which, if they did not want the boat to hit the water at a straight vertical angle and then either capsize or sink like a rock, would entail having to expose them full-on to the gunfire. He locked eyes with Regina and Miranda, trying to warn them, as their legs, already half-submerged, banged painfully against the _Bathsheba's_ barnacle-clad keel. He could hear Jennings roaring at his men to run out the port-side guns, and while it was an awkward angle for a shot, one heavy cannonball would blow the boat to smithereens in a way the small-arms fire could not. _And then, once again, we'll all be dead._ It was nearly comical how many potential avenues of action ended up there, but as ever, Liam could not dwell on it. His shoulders were being wrenched out of their sockets, but he kept hauling on the hoist. Of course the bloody fucking thing was jammed, fouled with wet, knotted rope – the barnacles were slicing his legs to ribbons, and there were sure to be sharks in these waters, even if they got away –

With a final herculean effort he had barely known was in him, Liam heaved, the hoist came loose, and the boat plunged the rest of the way toward the ocean. It, however, did not come free, even as it spun them around out from under it and up into the open, and all of a sudden, the night was full of flying iron hail. It was dark and the privateers were drunk, hence their aim was less than fantastic, but it was far too bloody close for comfort. And the hawser tethering them to the _Bathsheba_ was still holding, Liam could hear the gunports rattling, there was no way he would be able to saw through it in time with the corset-busk, and –

" _YOU!"_

At that moment, Jennings himself appeared overhead, unslinging the blunderbuss and pointing it at the escapees. There was nowhere for Liam to go to avoid it, and the next instant, Jennings jumped like a great tawny cat, agilely and straight down, right into the boat. He, most unfortunately, was not nearly as drunk as the rest of them. "All right, you fucking cunts," he snarled. "This _was_ supposed to take a while, but then, it is always better to do a job efficiently. Who wants it first?"

Liam threw himself between Jennings and the women, wondering if it had always been meant to be like this – the two of them, shadows and echoes of each other, Jennings as the worst part of him, the murderer of the brother he had never known he had, who had nearly killed him in turn. As if it had to end this way, one or the other. But then, two things happened. The first was that someone hit him very hard in the back, sending him sprawling over the boards. The second was that someone else hit Jennings very hard in the head, doing likewise.

As Liam jerked up in shock, all he could make out was that Regina had tackled him flat, out of the way of any potential gunshot, and that Miranda had wrenched one of the boat's oars free. Then she had, with one almighty blow – all those she had never struck, all those ten years in exile, all that time fighting back only through Flint, all that hunger for her own revenge, all that wondering if all that fighting indeed made any damn bit of difference, all the indignity and horror and humiliation that Jennings had visited on her and everyone she loved – swung the oar, hit him square and violently in the temple, and knocked him somersaulting out of the boat, boneless and senseless and bleeding. Liam couldn't get a good enough look to see if he was dead, but he certainly was not getting up again. Without stopping, Liam threw himself over the side as far as he could, grabbed hold of Jennings' cutlass, and pulled it free. Swung the blade at the hawser, and heard it part with a snap. They plunged with a crash and a splash, hit the water, and the next moment, they were surging away on the wild black sea.

Behind them, the boom and flash of the _Bathsheba's_ cannons began to strafe the night, but Liam (and Lord Archibald – _finally_ the bugger was good for something) were rowing as if the entire legions of hell were on their heels, it was still dark, and the crew was somewhat distracted by the pressing need to fish their insensate captain out of the water. There was an explosion and plume of spray astern as one of the shots fell just short, but Liam did not care, barely noticed. Kept on rowing, and rowing, and rowing.

He had no idea how much later it was when they finally rode to a halt, swerving up and down on the heaving black face of the deep. The water was getting rougher, and clouds had long since veiled the moon and stars. There was no chance of taking a heading or trying to aim back for Jamaica, and indeed, while they had escaped certain and painful death aboard the _Bathsheba,_ they were now adrift in a small rowboat in the middle of the open ocean, miles from anywhere, with a storm coming and no food, water, or navigational equipment. It might be that they had saved themselves only for an even longer and more unpleasant demise.

And yet, Liam was still a captain, and this was now his vessel. He pulled himself together, took stock, and began to issue orders. There was a worn canvas that could be stretched over the back half of the boat and lashed down for some basic shelter, a pair of half-rotted wooden buckets that would have to serve for bailing, Jennings' cutlass, a coil of rope, and four oars. Liam and Lord Archibald took those, and the women took the buckets – on Liam's insistence, he used the rope to tie the two of them to the boat. It was raining hard enough to drum the boards and plaster their hair and clothes to their skin. _And it's getting worse._

Before long, the night began to be lit up in eerie, towering crackles of lightning – brilliant, jagged forks that spanned sky to sea, as they rushed up waves ten, twenty, thirty feet high and sledded down the far side, drenched in thundering salt and spume when they broke. Liam had of course weathered his fair share of bad storms at night aboard the _Imperator,_ but nothing like this, _in medias res_. There was nothing but the anguished sea and the scream of the wind, the echoing roar of thunder, holding onto the oars with all his strength as the elements tried to rip them away, as Regina and Miranda bailed as fast as they humanely could and yet could barely get half the water out before a new seething assault struck. They dodged and crashed and whirled like a child's plaything, around and around, unceasing. Then a vast black wall rose up before them, eradicating even the sickly glare of the lightning, but it was no wall. It was a wave.

In the next heartbeat, the world slammed to pieces. And yet it was nearly calm, compared to the previous tumult, there in the utter and absolute heart of darkness, no sound, no sight, no sense at all. Floating motionless, and then catapulted forward with utter and indescribable force, turning and turning, shaking and banging, as Liam clawed out blindly and managed to get hold of the boat, which had turtled entirely. The others had been cast out somewhere in the madness – Regina and Miranda were still tied to it, if the lifeline had held, but Lord Archibald –

Liam spun around, saw something being whisked past him, gulped a breath, and dove. Somewhere in the hammering, pitch-black rush of the undertow, he got his hands on something that felt like an arm, and kicked with all his might, hoping it was toward the surface. They broke it at last in a still-driving rain, as Liam swam as hard as he could back toward the boat – Miranda and Regina were throwing their weight against it, trying to work up enough momentum to flip it, and he and the governor did likewise. It slowly tipped back upright, streaming and floundering, as Liam got one arm over the edge, hold of a bucket with the other, and attached himself by sheer indomitable will, bailing until it steadied.

After that, they managed to scramble back in, though they had lost the cutlass, one of the buckets, and half the oars in the capsize. Liam thought the worst of it might be passing, but they were still clearly in for a horrendously unpleasant night, and they kept rattling and roiling as if on the surface of an overboiling kettle of stew, up and down and up and down and down again. The women bailed enough water that they weren't sinking, though there were still a good six inches in the bottom, along with several struggling live fish that had been pitched in among the chaos. Regina made to throw them overboard too, but Liam stopped her. They might need those to eat.

The storm finally broke close to dawn, in bands of blood-red clouds, as the exhausted castaways struggled against the overwhelming need to sleep. Regina and Lord Archibald finally crawled beneath the canvas and did so, and Liam and Miranda were left to gaze out over the endless, empty miles of water, nothing and no trace of solid land or a ship or civilization of any sort for any direction. They sat in silence, there being little to say that could make the situation any better, until Miranda asked very quietly, "Do you think I killed him?"

"I – don't know." Liam's voice felt hoarse and rusty in his chest. "You could have. I've certainly seen men die from that sort of blow."

"What seems enough to kill an ordinary man scarcely seems enough to kill the Devil." Miranda's cold fingers knotted in her lap. "I've seen that with James, to be sure. Demons never truly seem to die. They linger on, somehow, somewhere."

"Aye, well. Jennings is, for better or worse, the least of our worries just now." Liam checked the sky. He could tell the cardinal directions from where the sun was coming up, but it was still impossible to know remotely where they were, or how far the storm might have blown them. He had never in his life felt so utterly alone, so apart from any other trace or sign of man – and yet as well, reforged, remade. Scoured clean of everything behind and before. Only the future, whatsoever it might, strangely, somehow be, now remained, opening wide ahead of them.

They drifted steadily eastward on the back of a powerful current, having collected enough rainwater in the storm that Liam supposed they wouldn't start to die of thirst for another few days. There were the fish, and while those would not keep, he could possibly contrive to catch more, or seabirds. He and Lord Archibald would have to make a gentleman's agreement to give more of their portions to the women, if it came to that, and indeed, the governor had nothing to say to challenge him, still stunned by the events of the past twenty-four hours – in which he had gone from his mansion in Jamaica to the middle of the bloody ocean, outlawed and on the run and barely having avoided half a dozen sorts of gruesome death. If nothing else, Liam hoped, he had damn well proven that he meant to defend Hamilton from his enemies. _If it will be worth anything in the end, who knows._

That night they ate some of the fish – raw, but not bad – and slept shallowly, in turns, keeping an eye out for any passing ships. Still nothing. They could be in Spanish waters near Hispaniola and Puerto Rico, and as the Spaniards had been sending heavy reinforcements to the wreck site to salvage the rest of the treasure and stop any more brazen burglary attempts, it would not be a good thing to run across one of their convoys. The Spanish hated pirates as much as the English, or possibly more after all that Flint, Vane, and Jennings had robbed from them, and were not likely to ask many questions as to whether they were or not.

The next day passed the same, though Liam had to keep a careful eye both on their dwindling water stocks and how well the others were holding up – a man adrift at sea could bear it only so long before he began to crack, and some would hit that point sooner than others. For now they seemed to be doing all right, but Lord Archibald, who had lived a comfortable and coddled life as a nobleman, looked a bit frayed round the edges. The women would stand it, they were strong, but if they lost the governor, after all the bother and fuss they had gone to in order not to –

And then that evening, as Lord Archibald and Miranda were taking their turn to sleep, Liam spotted a small shape on the horizon. Thought it was nothing at first, just a trick of the sunset, but it began to ride closer and closer, until he could see that it was in fact a ship. Under whose colours he had no idea, but most certainly a ship, a big, elegant three-master fast for her size, which he grew increasingly certain he had seen somewhere before, even if just in passing. He looked at Regina, who appeared to be thinking the same, and then, to hell with the risk, they both began to wave their arms and scream.

The ruckus quickly woke Lord Archibald and Miranda, who were apprised of what was going on and straightaway did the same – just as Miranda caught sight of the ship, and her eyes went very wide, clearly recognizing it beyond a doubt. Liam was about to ask, but decided it could wait, as they had been sighted, and in a few more minutes they were close enough for one of the men on deck to throw them a line. They caught it, Liam tied it down, and let them be pulled in, as Miranda looked up with desperate hope. "It's – " she began. "It – but how – "

The boat bumped against the hull, and finally, after the storm and the days adrift, rode to a halt. Then a man appeared by the railing: clearly the captain, young, handsome, sunburned and salt-stained, with long black hair tied with a ribbon, a scruff of black stubble, and a tired, surprised, gentle grin. He beckoned to his men to pull the boat up, and when it hit the deck with a thump and they had stumbled out on wobbly sea-legs, said, "What on _earth_ are you – "

Miranda did not say a word. Simply, silently, threw herself into his arms.

While Liam was staring in vast confusion, the captain kissed Miranda, pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her, and beckoned for her to be taken to his cabin. Then he turned to them. "Well," he said. "I thought I was done, but I don't suppose I am after all. You must be him. Killian's brother."

"I – " Liam was grateful, of course, but still completely lost. "You are – ?"

"I saw him in my brothel on Nassau with the others," Regina interrupted. "Before he handed himself over to the Navy, and all that mess happened. But this is his ship, the _Whydah,_ the one that took us to the Maroons' island to join you. He's – "

"Bellamy." The captain smiled. Sadly, and wryly, and tenderly – and yet, the strongest and softest and truest thing that Liam had ever seen. "Black Sam Bellamy, at your service."


	34. XXXIV

**-XXXIV-**

The sea was the color of wine and honey, the dark waves polished with the gilded glow of breaking dawn and the spring air warm and still. There was just enough breeze to ruffle the hair away from Killian's brow as he stood by the railing, surveying the horizon through his spyglass; he had just about learned how to brace it in his hook and twist it open with his hand in a more or less practiced motion, though it still felt in danger of being suddenly and inadvertently dropped overboard. And frankly, the spyglass was the easiest of everything he had been struggling to learn over. In the chaos and turmoil that had been nearly all of anno domini 1716 to date, he had not really had time to think on it much, and there _were_ certain clear advantages to having a sharp piece of metal affixed to one's wrist in place of a hand – he only regretted that he had not yet buried it between Jennings' eyes. But on the voyage to Jamaica, he had had ample opportunity to notice just how disconcerting the world was when you could quite literally only come to grips with half of it. The hook served its purpose quite well for fighting, but living was another matter.

Nonetheless, all the simmering frustration and knocking-over of objects he used to be able to pick up (at least he had not yet harpooned himself in some delicate area while dressing, he thought darkly) in the world was not going to magically grow his hand back. Once or twice he had considered a carved wooden replacement, but the only purpose that served was the purely aesthetic – at least the hook was _useful,_ could more or less snag things, tie ropes around or brace a wheel, and furthermore, it was distinctive. You might overlook any number of grizzled old sea dogs with missing eyes or legs or other casualties of the bone saw, but you were not likely to underestimate a man with a hook for a hand in a hurry. While Killian had of course resigned his pirate command for the foreseeable (and hopefully further) future, that did not mean he had forgotten about the dangers of this place, or expected to be warmly welcomed at whatever port he sailed to. Could be he would put it aside when they found somewhere to settle, and try to sink gracefully into the mists of obscurity, but not just yet. The fighting was not yet finished.

On that note, one of the chief ports where they could not expect a warm welcome was Jamaica, and by Killian's reckoning, if the wind kept up, they would be there by midday. Since his new _Jolly_ was not recognizable as a pirate vessel, and was flagged under British colors (he had felt a stab of revulsion at once more running the Union Jack up the halyard, but thought of Emma and his child belowdecks, and forced it down) they should be able to sail directly into the harbor, drop anchor, and go ashore, with a well-chosen bribe of the port factor to ensure that he asked for the name of neither captain nor vessel. This was the trick that Killian had seen Sam pull off so effortlessly in Boston, and hoped he could replicate without looking too suspicious, especially if the city was in a heightened state of vigilance. The _Walrus_ would lurk just up the coast, out of sight but quickly able to be called upon, in the all-too-likely event of a catastrophe.

Although this plan had been agreed in broad strokes, and everyone involved saw the sense of it, Killian thought they would have quite a job preventing Flint from storming ashore and tearing the place apart with his bare hands until he found Miranda – alive or otherwise. He couldn't much blame the man; if it was Emma in similar straits, he would likely have done the same thing. Yet as such displays of hot-headed recklessness were liable to earn them both an appointment at the Port Royal hangman's earliest available convenience, it would have to be tempered. They, after all, did not have pardons in hand, whether from Lord Peter Ashe or anyone else, and a great deal of ocean remained to be sailed before that was even a possibility.

Killian glanced at the _Walrus,_ sailing a few hundred yards distant. At least they had not had trouble on the journey, which had led him to vainly hope that they were somehow mistaken, and that Gold was too distracted to send someone to arrest Hamilton, but he knew that proved nothing. Not for the first time, he wondered just what they were missing with Gold. It would be easy to cast him merely as a zealous colonial governor, using his powers to the fullest extent of the law (and beyond it) to bring a wild place under bridle as Westminster had ordered, but for the fact of one large roach in the rushes: his treatment of the Jones brothers. While their shipboard policies had raised official eyebrows before, they had served competently and honorably, trusted and relied upon by the Admiralty, and the _Imperator_ and her commanders had been decorated for bravery for her engagements in the war. What with the Navy perennially short of ships and reliable captains to sail them, someone like Liam, whose crew stayed healthy and alive, was most valuable, and they had not been chosen to be posted to the Indies, to face down such a danger as the pirates' republic, by accident. The Whitehall brass thought they could do the job. Only for Gold, with exacting, remorseless, and cunning, pitch-perfect cruelty, to completely tear them to shreds and send Killian careening pirate, with a sixty-gun man o'war to boot – far more than any of the known pirate vessels, and more than twice that of the _Scarborough,_ the only other active Navy rater in the region. _Why?_

The more Killian turned it over, the less sense it made, if Gold was only a loyal governor striving to return the English Caribbean to Crown control, for him to do any such thing. Indeed, Killian was unable to repress a horrible suspicion that Gold had _wanted_ him to turn pirate, and acted every step of the way, having had a full report on Lieutenant Killian Jones and what he was like, in a fashion calculated to push him into doing just that. Gold was friends with Mr. Plouton the fraudulent assurance agent of Bristol, after all – he knew exactly how the brothers had escaped slavery and attained their command, and would then be aware, through observation of Plouton's foul operation, of how to destroy ships for his own gain. If he did in fact want to keep the Caribbean a tinderbox, or to set the whole thing quite literally on fire, what better way than providing it a blazingly notorious traitor, a Navy lieutenant-turned-pirate, whose grudges would all be so very personal? Gold could not possibly be unaware of Flint's disgrace and downfall, and Killian had already noted how eerily well their trajectories matched. If so – this entire time, he had done nothing contrary to Gold's wishes at all, but indeed followed them exactly –

 _Bloody hell._ Killian wanted to insist to himself that he was mistaken, but he was ever and more sickeningly certain that he wasn't. He then thought of something Liam had said to him on the event of their first trip to Jamaica, their first suspicion that Lord Archibald was less than perfectly loyal: if Hamilton himself was up to treasonous activities, there would be no better disguise for it than to hand in the Jones brothers as traitors themselves. Was that the game Gold was playing, on the grandest level? Moving all the pieces on the chessboard to his own whims, creating an obvious and ready-made turncoat in Killian for the Admiralty to focus their entire attention, and effort in subduing, in order to disguise his own sedition? Fuck, this even explained Christmas. Hume and Hornigold might have a personal bone to pick with Sam, but to insist that he was the only hostage they wanted, when Killian and Flint – both objectively far more dangerous, and both rather insulted that they hadn't been the highest-priority target – were available for capture? Sam had thought it was simple arrogance, that Gold wanted to stretch out their destruction as long as possible in order to enjoy it the most, but while that might certainly be part of it, it was too much of a risk for it to be all.

No, Killian felt quite sure. While the gruesome twosome might be stupid enough to miss it, gleefully focused on knocking Sam down a peg or two, Gold wasn't. If he was the remotest bit clever, which he regrettably was, he would have known there was plenty of potential blackmail material to use on Hume, but not show his hand until _after_ Hume got back to Antigua with Sam, expecting to be congratulated on a job well done, and then getting tripped up instead. Hang Sam, indisputably a pirate and enough of a famous one for the news to spread like wildfire, and to leave no doubt that Gold was doing a bang-up job at hunting them, but not one who was any real threat to the Caribbean. Leave Killian and Flint alive, with an extra helping of rage and vengeance at Sam's unjust death, to terrorize and destabilize the rest. Send Hume after them, supposedly to make up for not capturing them the first time, and hope the lot of them spectacularly did each other in.

Killian rubbed his face, then fumbled for his rum flask, the other item he had quickly learned to operate one-handed. The only question remaining, then, was why. Gold was Scottish, aye, but Killian would eat his entire leather pirate ensemble before he thought the governor was a Jacobite. For one thing, he would not be arresting Hamilton (if indeed he was) and kicking the last legs out from under the cause even in the name of a good show of loyalty – sack some middle-ranking magistrate or judge somewhere, sure, but not the Governor of Jamaica. For the other, Gold was a clear-eyed cynic to the bone, who did not get involved in romantic, idealistic, patently doomed lost causes, and James Stuart's attempted restoration to the throne of a country that had hated Catholics for nearly two hundred years was exactly that. The Jacobites were just too pathetic for a shark like Gold, a man who wanted to survive, and wanted to win.

Yet what else was there? Was he a Spanish double agent, perhaps? Emma had told Killian about the lengths to which Gold had gone to make it look like a Spaniard hiring her and the _Blackbird_ to destroy the _Imperator._ But given how disastrous Gold had been to Spanish ambitions during the war, Killian could not see King Philip suddenly deciding that this man would make an excellent ally in the ever-present, white-hot rivalry between England and Spain to undercut each other in the New World. So. . . what? Destroy first one empire, and then another? _Why?_

Killian stood there a moment longer, then whirled away, marched up to Will, who had almost finished his shift at the wheel and was yawning to go below, and ordered him to come about and ride up on the _Walrus._ From the way Will blinked at him like an owl, it was clear that he thought he had just witnessed a man go spectacularly off his nut. "What the – we already discussed the Jamaica plan, what else is there to –"

"Don't argue," Killian growled. "I'm your captain, do as I say."

"Actually, Emma's still my captain." Will's brown eyes flashed at him. "Just borrowin' you. But only since she seems to like you, and since I don't want to go below and wake her this early, I'll do it. Though if Flint bites your fool head off, not my bloody fault."

With that, he turned the _Jolly_ hard against the wind, and the fleet, small brig swept across the _Walrus's_ bow, as there was a strangled shout and burst of swearing from the other helmsman – it was, after all, rather like jumping out directly in the way of someone running full speed toward you, and hoping they could pull up in time. But they managed to avoid a collision, and Killian glared at Will, as if he had made this maneuver purposefully contentious in order to ensure that Flint would be in a bad mood when he emerged (which, admittedly, would not have taken much effort). Yet once the two ships had drawn more or less level, the figure that strode into sight was not Flint, nor even Billy Bones. It was Killian's boyhood – not friend, never friend, though he had briefly acted like it before running off. John Silver junior.

"What are you doing here?" Killian demanded, when he had recovered from the unpleasant surprise. "Where's Flint?"

"The captain is asleep," Silver said, quite unruffled. "I assure you, as quartermaster, you can negotiate with me in his stead."

"Can I?" Killian looked back at him coldly. He had not forgotten how much of an obstruction Silver had made himself to the whole prospect of rescuing Sam, and while it had of course been carried off despite his objections, he had then continued to stoke the crew's resentment about Killian and Flint's failure to take an instant prize afterward. Killian was likewise quite sure that Silver would regard what he presently had to say as direly unprofitable, and take steps to thwart it accordingly. He had also noticed that Flint, whatever he had groused in Tortola about wanting something unfortunate to happen to Silver, had nonetheless become inescapably reliant on him. Flint might be stubborn and hot-headed, but he was surely no idiot. He knew that his control over his ship and his men remained tenuous, and for better or worse, Silver had a nearly mystical ability to charm them, to feel out their motives and their secrets and their inclinations, a sleek diplomacy that Flint's bare-knuckled style of negotiations could rarely achieve. Therefore, Flint might have realized that he needed to offer Silver a little sweetener, to keep that talent working for him rather than against, and permitted him to go out and see whatever idiotic thing Killian had meant by cutting them off like this. _Well, I never claimed it was anything but._

Still, though. This was too important to bounce off Silver's infuriatingly permanent white smile and glossy black curls. Killian folded his arms. "I want Flint."

"The captain – "

"Is asleep, yes, you said. Wake him up."

Silver arched an eyebrow. "And why should I do that?"

Killian's personal feeling was that it would involve a musket ball in the smug mug if he didn't, but that was not an answer to get them anywhere. "Because I need to tell him something. You can't really want to go to Jamaica, can you? Look how dangerous it is, and there's not likely to be any decent money in it at the end. You can't say you aren't disquieted by how much he's, yet again, risking for his own personal reasons. Where does it end?"

This of course was, if not an outright lie, at least stretching the truth to the maximum degree, but it was the only angle Killian could think of that might appeal to Silver's self-interest, and indeed the quartermaster looked surprised – whatever he had expected, it wasn't that. He considered, then wheeled away and went into the cabin. It was impossible to know exactly what he said, but he reappeared a few minutes later, with a tousled and annoyed Flint in tow. Flint was still shrugging on his jacket, so perhaps he _had_ been sleeping, though Killian found that hard to believe. Brooding all night with a bottle, more like. He did know something about that.

"Well?" Flint grumbled. "What exactly is this burning concern of yours, Jones?"

"It's not a matter to be shouted across ship decks. Can you come aboard?"

Flint cast half a look at Silver, as clearly he was not about to sally off and leave him at liberty to entertain the crew with his own version of events, or risk accidentally separating himself from Abigail Ashe, his leverage. Nor did he want to put down anchor and halt for a proper conference, as that would mean losing time to Jamaica. The end result was that Flint, Silver, and Abigail all swung on ropes over to the _Jolly,_ Abigail clutching hard to Flint, with Billy left to supervise the _Walrus_. Flint and company, meanwhile, followed Killian down the ladder to the cramped captain's cabin, where Emma was now awake and dressed. She frowned at the unexpected company for breakfast. "Killian, is something wrong?"

"I'm. . . not sure, love." Beckoning the other three to sit at the table, while Abigail was clearly surprised at the sight of a woman among this lawless gang of wastrels, Killian took the captain's place and forced himself not to fiddle with the candlesticks. He wanted to avoid telling Silver, but since they had already brought him here due to being unable to leave him behind, and since he would undoubtedly find out some other way, they might as well know which version of the story the poxy git had heard. With that, uncomfortably aware that this sounded like the result of a night left to his paranoid devices, seeing spies and secret plots in every shadow, Killian informed them as to his suspicions.

There was a marked silence when he finished. Most unexpectedly, it was Abigail who spoke first, rather taken aback at her own nerve. "But Lord Robert is a governor _._ A known and loyal servant of the Crown. Why would he do something like this?"

Flint made a noise which suggested that he and the young Miss Ashe would have to have a little chat about English officials and their capacity for untrammeled obnoxiousness.

"I'm not sure," Emma said. "But Killian's right that it doesn't add up. I never could figure out why Gold would try to make it look as if a Spaniard had hired me, aside from the fact that it would obviously be treason if he did it openly, and why he would want to destroy the most powerful Royal Navy ship in the region. Disapproving of lenient policies can't be the only reason. Not for a man like him."

Flint made another skeptical noise. It seemed that while he put absolutely nothing past Robert Gold's potential exercise of evil, and was prepared to believe the general worst of the system at every opportunity, even he knew that this rested on nothing more than a hunch and a few scattered suspicions. "Do you have any proof of this?"

"There were his books," Emma said. "The one where I found the transaction for a hundred pieces of eight, which the informant used to pay me in the Turks. I told Killian that Gold must have left them behind on purpose, intending to frame him and his brother for illegal commerce with the Spaniards, even if they escaped his plot to have them sunk. But those are – "

"Back on the _Jolie,_ " Flint finished. "Which, yet again, Jones in his infinite wisdom traded to Blackbeard. Doesn't that deal just get better all the time?"

Killian decided it prudent to hold his tongue. Yes, it would have been useful to have those papers, though by themselves they would not be accepted as any sort of damning evidence – as he had noted before, a pirate trying to accuse an English official of treason would be laughed out of court, if he wasn't shot in the head first. But he would still rather have Emma than anything else, and besides, giving his ship to Blackbeard, and removing himself as the high-profile traitor Gold wanted, had to be something that even the wretched, deceitful, manipulative, murderous crocodile had not seen coming. If he was counting on Killian pursuing his grievances bloodily to the death, thus buying him excellent cover for whatever the devil he was really up to, this had to catch him on the hop. For how long, however, was another question altogether.

At that, Silver cleared his throat. "May I speak?" he said, while Flint and Killian glared at him as if to say that they supposed they couldn't stop him. "Fascinating as this theory is – and even you agree it is only a theory, Captain – I'm failing to see exactly our concern with it. Indeed, if you think Robert Gold is cleverly and subversively sabotaging the British Crown from within, why shouldn't we just let him keep doing it? The British Crown is, I scarcely need to point out, no friend to any of us. If he _could_ take it down – "

"It would mean another war on the scale of the Spanish succession, or worse." Despite his own disbelief, Flint had nonetheless been quick to appreciate that point. "And Gold is no fucking friend to any of us, no matter who, or what, he might be working for. You said you didn't think he was a Jacobite, Jones. So what would it be? If we thought all along it was just the Crown he belonged to, and that we were fighting, _does_ it matter if it's not?"

"I suppose the question would be, in that case," Killian said slowly. "Is there something _worse_ than the British Crown?"

Flint barked a humorless laugh. "Not that I have encountered, no."

"There could be, though." Emma's brow creased. "The system itself might be greedy, corrupt, and cruel, but not inherently evil. If whatever Gold wants can't even be achieved within the extensive leeway that his current position would allow him, it must be _really_ bad."

"So terrible that even Rule Britannia won't let him be terrible enough?" Flint looked incredulous. "Mind, if anyone could find a way to do that, I'm quite sure it would be him. Crazed for power, tired of having to answer to anyone, any king or Admiralty anywhere – why not burn down the lot of it, and reign over the ashes? Once he had wrung out the last bit of use from us, he'd hang us too, just to put the perfect finishing touch on the whole wretched vaudeville. After what he tried to do to Bellamy, does anyone think he'd have anything remotely different for – "

He broke off, clearly furious with himself for mentioning Sam in front of Silver, who was watching him shrewdly. The silence was most unpleasant. Then Silver said, "Captain, forgive me. But isn't it obvious, then, that your grudge with Gold is personal?"

James Flint, who had never in his life had a grudge that was not violently personal, and which he was not determined to hold until the end of time, gave him a green-eyed basilisk stare. "And your point is?"

"Just that it doesn't matter who Gold is or is not working for, if it's himself, the Crown, the Jacobites, or some other rotten lot. As you pointed out so eloquently, he will kill us either way, so nothing's really changed. But once we left Tortola, and the possibility of more prizes, we were supposed to ransom Miss Ashe – " Silver inclined his head politely to the girl in question – "back to her father for a hefty sum. Instead, we find ourselves once more bound for Jamaica to track down the wandering Mrs. Barlow, and now Jones is trying to distract you with some fable designed to get your blood up about going after Gold again. You will recall, I am sure, my opinion on the whole Antigua misadventure in the first place. Since when was the feared Captain Flint, the man who killed his own friend Mr. Gates rather than let him stand in the way of attaining the _Urca,_ reduced to a mere errand-boy to pick up his stray dogs?"

Flint's face went ice-white. "If you _ever_ refer to them in such a manner again – "

Silver glanced sidelong at Killian and gave a small shrug, as if to say that his point had been proved by this reaction. Pressing it, he leaned forward. "The men follow you because there was nothing you would scruple or shirk at, or used to be, in taking ships and prizes. If now you have switched that about, and they will always come second to whatever you are personally – "

"We've been over this! We've taken ships! Plenty of fucking ships! What do you think we spent the winter doing? We – "

"Needed them to mend the _Jolie, Whydah,_ and _Ranger_ ," Silver completed. "None were particularly splendid hauls, were they? We needed their timber and canvas and rope to give away, not whatever pitiful barrels of fish oil they had in their holds. I needn't remind you of the circumstances in which I joined the crew. Not much has fundamentally changed, except now there _are_ two people you won't betray, at the cost of our enterprise. Now they can be quite sure that if Barlow or Bellamy stubs their toe somewhere, you'll drop all else and rush to them, with little if any regard for your own men. The _Walrus_ is – "

"The _Walrus_ is my ship." Flint's voice was so dangerous that Killian saw Emma, the most well-versed in Flint's boiling points, instinctively reach out to shield Abigail. "She sails as her captain commands her. If you were under any illusions about it being a democracy – "

"Most pirate vessels are, aren't they?"

"Most captains aren't me."

Silver studied the older man for a long moment, as if judging how far he could possibly push his luck. Then he said, "Isn't that why you and the others left the Navy? Hatred of tyrants?"

Flint stood up so fast that he nearly knocked over the heavy table. Abigail squeaked in terror and Emma put a protective arm around her, as Killian likewise urgently thought he should do something, but was not sure what. "Are you," Flint enquired, in a tone which said Silver ought to think very, very carefully about his next words if he did not want them to be followed by the drawing of pistols, "threatening me?"

"Threatening you? No." Killian had to feel a grudging respect for Silver's nerve, much as he hated him; he was still seated, looking cool, while Flint was the one appearing to be on the brink of explosion. "As I have told you many times before to a general lack of effect, I'm on your side. I am _warning_ you. Letting you know exactly what the men think, without sugarcoat or varnish, like a good quartermaster. And as well, no matter how this mission to find Mrs. Barlow – a lovely woman, I am sure, if one with a very dangerous hold on you – ends, they are openly planning to call a vote. For deposition, or. . . worse."

The way Silver said "worse" made it inescapably clear to the three pirate captains what exactly was being considered: marooning, and not in the sense of escaped slaves. Rather, it was stranding a man, in this case Flint, on a tiny deserted island and sailing away, thus for him to die slowly of heat and thirst and madness. It was about the worst fate in the pirates' book, with the possible competition of keel-hauling – but at least when you were keel-hauled you only died most of the time, whereas with marooning you always did, and agonizingly. It was also the favoured punishment for captains who had overstepped their boundaries and considered themselves unaccountable emperors like their Navy counterparts, the one thing pirates hated above all others. If it truly was on the table for Flint, he was in dire straits indeed.

There was another very loud silence. Then with a clear and titanic effort of will, Flint mastered himself and sat down. The tension in the cabin barely diminished, however, as he stared at Silver, who stared right back. "Fine," he said. "What do you fucking propose?"

Silver had enough sense not to gloat over his victory, but he could not resist a small smile. "Well, since the captain has asked," he said graciously, "I should think it was obvious. If you have some clever plan in mind to approach Charlestown and return Miss Ashe without the lot of us being hanged on the spot, you should do that. Secure a large sum of money and a pardon for yourself, and you and Mrs. Barlow can retire to – wherever it is you plan to go that you think the Crown won't catch up to you, I'm not sure. Then the _Walrus_ can elect a new captain, with the full confidence of the men, and start fresh, just like you."

"What?" Flint looked as if he was heartily regretting his decision to sit down so fast. "Your grand solution is to give another man _my ship_ and ease me off into the – "

"Wasn't that your own desire?" Silver pointed out, reasonably enough. "Did you think we'd all sail with you into quiet retirement and beat our swords into ploughshares? Much as you disdain Captain Hook here for trading his ship away, at least he grasped the point that if he wanted a life with a woman, a real life, he had to give up that part of himself. That's what it will come to. Mrs. Barlow, or the _Walrus._ Which one do you love more?"

Flint still looked angry – but at that, almost uncertain. "So what?" was the best he could come up with. "What is this, just a plan for you to take over the ship and – "

"If I wanted a ship, I daresay I'd be speaking to Hook – or rather, in this case, Jones." Silver glanced at Killian again. "The _Ben Gunn,_ my father's ship, was supposed to be mine in due course. Yet it mysteriously sank, taking my father and his whole crew with it, and Jones and his brother were, very conveniently, the only survivors."

"Yes, so you said." Flint was not impressed. "A while ago. And once more, I don't believe for an instant that you're so broken up about your father's death as to – "

"And as I said, no, I'm not." Silver shrugged. "But Jones _does_ owe me a ship, doesn't he?"

Killian shifted his weight. "If you think you're about to try some – "

"We'll call it an indefinitely outstanding debt." Silver gave him a friendly smile. "I've heard you're also going to retire from this life, so you won't need this one any more, will you? Hand it over when you do, and we'll call our. . . past history square. Surely you can't object?"

Killian chewed his tongue. It was true, of course, that as he was not planning to live on a ship for the rest of his life, he would have to relinquish this one at some point, and if Silver was content to wait instead of trying to snatch it now, that _was,_ on the surface, a most reasonable bargain. But Killian's pride screamed bloody murder at the thought of giving a ship to the son of the man who had held him and Liam in slavery, at the idea that he _owed_ Silver anything at all, and looking at Flint, he could tell that it had had the same effect on him. No matter if Flint _was_ planning to retire with Miranda, being told that he had to give up the _Walrus_ and his captaincy to do it, the reminder of how he would have to humiliate himself before Lord Ashe or anyone for a pardon, made it look a most cheap and cowardly course of action. _Silver and Gold – even their names go together, if this is a case of getting a man to do one thing by pushing him toward the other –_

"No," Flint said decisively, breaking the spell. "I'm not giving up my ship. Any man who disagrees can ask Mr. Singleton for advice on how to beat me in a duel. Silver, you can talk the crew around to my point of view – we all know how good you are at talking – while we continue the voyage to Jamaica. Once there, we'll make further plans. Is that quite clear?"

Silver stared back at him, as if honestly stunned that Flint could hear all that, utterly ignore him, and remain obstinately set on his original course of action. Evidently, he did not know the man nearly as well as he thought. "Captain, are you mad? I said – "

"Oh, you said plenty." Flint's lips curled back from his teeth, white in his grimy ginger beard. "I do hope you're done."

With that, he offered a coldly correct hand to Abigail Ashe – who, after a nervous look at Emma, took it. She followed him up the ladder, as Silver got to his feet reluctantly and went after them. Then the trapdoor banged, and they were gone.

The last few hours of the journey to Jamaica were nearly the most nerve-wracking that Killian could recall in recent memory, even though they did not involve battle or duels or things being blown up or hair-raising escapes or attempted rescues. He kept nervously glancing at the _Walrus,_ waiting to see Flint just pitched overboard in the middle of the ocean to spare the bother of even finding him an island, but all remained uneasily quiet on the deck of the other ship. Killian knew that most, if not all, of the people who underestimated Flint tended to end up dead one way or the other, but the scene in the cabin was still rattling him. Before it, it seemed all but certain that Flint would take Ashe's pardon, leave the pirate life, and join Miranda, Killian, and Emma in building a new home somewhere. After, it felt as if a bucket of freezing water had been dumped on that cozy dream, shocking them out of it and back to cold, unforgiving reality. Silver had, as expertly as a jouster, struck at every one of Flint's weaknesses, until Killian thought that Flint, though he'd never admit it, might even be a bit afraid of Silver. After all, Flint prided himself on being the most manipulative person in a room, and Silver had outfoxed him and backed him into a corner in a way Killian had never seen anyone do before. Just as he was convinced that Gold wanted him to turn pirate, so was he convinced that Silver wanted Flint to remain one. Thought that the idea of him giving up this life to settle down with Miranda was mad and dangerous, and he would be a fool even to consider it. _If he is, and it is, then what am I?_ Much as Killian tried, he could not entirely dismiss the thought, and the pride and the anger was woken in him too. _Think you'll get rid of us that easily, do you?_

They reached Jamaica a little past midday, and did as had been planned. The _Walrus_ hung back while the _Jolly_ went ahead, on extreme lookout for Jennings or any other of Gold's myrmidons. There was no sign of any of these, but that did not mean that all was quiescent. There was some freshly burned wreckage in the harbor, of what had been a small ship – possibly a Bermuda sloop, but it was hard to be sure. Furthermore, Killian had to be extremely careful of going ashore, since new vessel or not, he was still the man who had burned this place to the ground some months ago. He dressed plainly, as a humble merchant sailor, and though he had not wanted Emma to come along, she insisted. He supposed that this could not hurt as an added precaution; surely no one could suspect a hard-working seaman and his pregnant wife. But if any of the governor's men caught sight of "Emma White," that could go just as badly, or worse.

When they did make it ashore, however, they found a curious lack of officials anywhere, and a tense, distracted, on-edge air. It took some searching, but since Emma did not want to walk far in the hot sun, and taverns were fertile sources of gossip, they repaired to one such establishment and prepared to prospect for news. Yet they barely needed to do any digging at all. The place was buzzing with the shocking tale of Lord Archibald Hamilton being arrested for treason by his own ex-privateer, and taken away in chains to the _Bathsheba._ The barman was then furtherly happy to tell them that there had been three others taken with Hamilton, at the time. A man, and two women. Nobody was quite certain who they were, but they had looked important.

Killian and Emma stared at each other in horror, as they could guess who this mysterious threesome had actually been. So their worst fears were realized – Jennings _had_ been here at the same time as Liam, Miranda, and Regina, and taken them prisoner as a wonderful extra prize, when he had only expected to apprehend the governor. And with that, knowing Jennings and the poisonous enmity that had built up between them, there was no reason for him to let them live until Antigua, where he would have to hand his playthings over to Gold. If Liam and the women had gotten, or more accurately been forced, onto the _Bathsheba,_ they were dead.

Emma affected a very convincing swoon at the news of such horrors, which managed to get them a private room to talk in and a pitcher of cool water. Once they were alone, she looked at Killian with an expression that meant she had reached the same conclusion. "They – he – he has them. Jennings. It's my fault, I – "

"No, love. Remember, you said that Miranda insisted on coming, that you tried to stop her." Killian's mind was whirring feverishly, but he would not allow her to take the blame. "Liam's a smart man, he'd know the same. I'm not sure how, but he could have gotten them off the ship somehow. He certainly wouldn't sit there meekly and wait for Jennings to torture and kill the lot of them. That ship we saw burned in the harbor – "

"It looked like a Bermuda sloop," Emma finished bleakly. "Like the one they sailed here. So they're not in their own vessel, and as we guessed, Jennings destroyed it. They'd be – what, overboard? Clinging to a raft in the middle of the ocean? Otherwise, any ship in the Caribbean could have picked them up. _Jennings_ could have picked them up, and made their punishment twice as bad for trying to escape. We have no idea where they are, and no way to find them."

Killian closed his eyes and did not answer. She was, after all, entirely right, and he felt it like cold lead in his stomach. The possible loss of his brother was bad enough, and he knew that Emma would take the guilt to her grave if Miranda had died trying to get her a pardon, but what this news would do to Flint, he did not want to imagine. He was already in enough of a ruffle after everything Silver had said, and now he had absolutely no way to know Miranda's fate, whether she was alive or dead or if he had any chance of helping her – worse, perhaps, than if he just found out that she had been killed. There would no way to exorcise this ghost, no way to loosen its hold, if he was forever wondering what opportunity might have been missed. Killian very badly did not want to lie, but the thought of telling Flint the truth – when despite everything, he had rather come to care for the older man, considered him part of their strange little solidarity against the world, the two of them so alike – was almost unbearable.

He opened his eyes, and found Emma still looking at him, the same question stark on her face. "What?" she whispered at last. "What do we do?"

Killian wracked his brains. Both of them were, he knew, rather unfortunately experienced in the art of withholding certain information in the name of sparing confrontations – _in the name of sparing your own feelings, coward,_ a cruel but undeniable voice jeered at him – and since the truth would be catastrophic, they would have to be very, very careful. There was, after all, no conclusive proof as to the trio's fate. They could have survived. They could turn up. It was a slim and lunatic wager, to be sure, but it was still there. This was what all of this had been about, wasn't it? Hoping, finding some reason to keep on going, to believe, in the face of all the utterly massive reasons to just give up, expect the worst, and die?

"We say they're alive," Killian said at last, quietly. "And we find them."

This was all well and good, if wildly optimistic, but when they returned aboard the _Jolly_ and sailed back to where they had left the _Walrus,_ they discovered a significant complication. It appeared that the _Walrus'_ crew had just been waiting to be sure that there would be no interference and they could do whatever they wanted, before they expressed their displeasure in a much more tangible fashion. A thick, acrid aroma of gunpowder hung in the air, a white haze suffusing the ship, as groups of combatants gathered on the deck and glared evilly at each other. Billy Bones was bellowing for order and trying to break up the standoff, and Flint himself was backed into the sterncastle, sporting a black eye, blood running down his cheek, a gash in his shoulder, and looking very much as if he was intending to kill everybody personally. Yet there was no sign of Silver, which somehow felt more sinister. He should be in the middle, in his element, but no. If they had counted on him to change Flint's mind and felt betrayed when he returned with absolutely no alteration in their plans, that they had given this upstart newcomer such confidence, made him quartermaster over other longer-serving, better-qualified candidates, and he was merely as useless and full of hot air as they had always suspected –

"HEY!" Killian shouted, as they drew abreast and he and Emma waved frantically at Billy. He did hope that there was no one on the cannons, as one good broadside hit would be a very serious problem. Bloody hell, why _had_ he traded the _Jolie_ and her sixty guns to Blackbeard? He could break up the fight in an instant if he had her, but without –

Then he looked over at Emma, reminded himself that he _did_ have the woman who mattered and that was why he had done it, and redoubled his efforts to get Billy's attention. When the tall blond pirate had reached the railing, Killian demanded, "What the devil is going – "

"I think you can guess." Billy looked grim. "You'd better have something to make this whole fucking trip worth it."

"We – " Killian's stomach turned a deeply unpleasant somersault. Telling the very angry _Walrus_ that they had not in fact found Miranda, the reason they had hauled arse down here in the first place, and now had to either locate her literally bloody anywhere in the Caribbean, or her violated corpse aboard the _Bathsheba,_ was tantamount to suicide. "We – found a lead. But – "

"But not them." Billy looked as if he was containing a roar of frustration with great difficulty. "Do you think anyone can ask _them –_ " he jerked a thumb at the assorted gangs of brawlers behind him – "to just peaceably recollect and sail off on this bloody pointless scavenger hunt again? They want blood. More specifically, Flint's."

"Killing him isn't going to solve their problems!"

Billy looked at him with an expression as if to say he didn't know, it might.

"Where's Silver?" Killian couldn't believe he was turning to him, of all men, for help, but desperate times, so on and so forth. "Isn't this just the sort of thing he earns his keep from – "

"They seized him," Billy said. "Belowdecks. Smashed his leg to pulp with a sledgehammer, while the other half went after Flint. I had to protect Miss Ashe from being used as a bargaining chip, or worse, by either side, so this – " He shook his head, furious and disgusted. "I managed to scream at the lot of them that the racket they were making would wake the Devil in hell, much less the edgy English authorities just a few miles down the coast in Kingston. But they'll resume tearing each other to pieces the instant we put some space between us and this godforsaken fucking island. Unless you have a game-changer, that is, and I don't see Mrs. Barlow with you, so I'm guessing you don't. I'd advise you to get clear, unless you want to be caught up."

"No," Emma said. "Billy, wait. Jennings arrested Hamilton. There's no governor in residence right now. If all the men wanted was a prize, they could likely take one without – "

"This isn't a question of individual prizes any more." Billy looked at her wearily. "It's the whether they can ever trust Flint to do anything apart from mislead and manipulate and use them as slaves for his own needs, and they've just about decided that they can't. _Sic semper tyrannus._ I can't stand by myself between the entire ship and the captain if they just up and – "

Killian had no idea what exactly came over him. Just at that moment, it all seemed to crash together in his head: his previous thoughts over who the man with a hook for a hand might be, Flint's general derision that he could do something as ill-advised as trading the _Jolie_ to Blackbeard, the fact that he had won that four-way duel on the beach but lost command of the fleet soon after dragging them out of Antigua, memories of his own mutiny and having to kill Hawkins, his anger at Silver for implicitly suggesting that he was a soft touch who could be eased aside, his realization that Gold had destroyed him and Liam in the service of something truly terrible, and the fact that it was just him now, just him. And he was not about to let this happen, to lose everything they had worked for, by something so stupid and avoidable. It was that simple. He wasn't friends with Flint in the way he was with Sam, finding comfort and solace and support in his presence – indeed, if Flint was the most manipulative person in the room, he was usually also the least comforting. But it didn't matter. If he deserved to die for everything he had done for Miranda and Sam, for choosing to value the living people he loved over those he had lost, then so much more did Killian. And for better or worse, at last, he did not think so. Not that he was, that either of them, were good men per se, but that at least they deserved a chance.

He looked up at the _Walrus_ and said, "I'll come aboard, now."

Both Billy and Emma were forgivably flabbergasted by this request, but Killian – thinking again of Blackbeard, and how he could switch between the man and the monster as needed, control it and make it work for him – gave them a penetrating, chilling look. It took some further haggling, but he strode onto the other ship, noting that an unwilling hush fell at the sight of him. No matter the heat of their current animus against their captain, they had not forgotten seeing Killian take down Blackbeard, kick Flint off, and put a sword to Vane's throat. Good. He intended them to be good and afraid of Captain Hook by the time this was done.

He joined Billy in dispelling the last of the quarrels, watched from on high by Flint, and ordered the men who had broken Silver's leg brought up on deck. For this transgression, surely they knew that there could be no continuing on the crew. They were, after all, still anchored on the Jamaican coast, so they could go ashore, do their best to avoid being rumbled as pirates, and get new work on any of the ships trafficking the docks, if they so chose. Refuse, and they would be shot in the head and dropped in the shallows, to wash up bloated and rotting on the white sand and the thickets of jungle beyond. That was, of course, if the sharks didn't get to them first.

A few looks were exchanged at this, but Killian was gratified to see that they were not quite about to openly challenge the man who had defeated Blackbeard in single combat and whom even Flint had acknowledged as fleet commodore for the journey to Antigua and stopping the attack on St. John's. Furthermore, most of them did know that a line had been crossed, and they routed out the malefactors and marched them on deck for justice to be served. Silver's leg was too shattered to be saved, had to be taken off at the knee, and Killian could hear him moaning and groaning in pain through the grate. The sound did not give him as much pleasure as he might have thought. He remembered too well what it had felt like when Jennings' knife came down on his wrist, the utter, blinding, delirious agony, wandering in the wastelands of fever and suffering while Milah did her best to piece him back together, and the long rehabilitation that faced him even now. At least this ended any idea of having to hand over the _Jolly_ later, as Silver would find it challenging to continue as a one-legged pirate, far less a captain of his own vessel. _Though I'm sure he will land on his feet. So to speak._

It was past dusk by the time order was finally restored. A few of the mutineers had defiantly chosen death rather than returning to servitude as ordinary sailors or continuing under Flint's command, and to everyone's surprise, Billy appointed himself to carry out their sentence. After his own endless tussles with Flint, one would think his sympathies tilted rather in the opposite direction, but Killian, remembering how he had first met Billy – tied to the beach on Eleuthera to be tortured by Hume, from which Killian's men had rescued him – knew differently. Billy had decided that at no cost or possibility could the Navy be allowed to win, and that Flint, despite his own fatal flaws, was the only chance they had of stopping such monstrous evil. Indeed, Billy seemed to regard this discord, chaos, and factionalism as a personal insult, after what he had sacrificed to come back to them and protect them as best he could. As he was still considerably respected, his decision to shoot the mutineers carried substantial weight, and as the bodies were pushed overboard, Killian could tell that between him and Billy, it would be quite a while before anyone thought of crossing Flint again. They had bought a little time, but how much?

The sun was well gone, the moon and stars luminous in the soft black night, by the time the blood had been scrubbed from the boards, everyone had at last gone below, and Flint descended the stairs of the sterncastle. He took out his handkerchief, dipped it in the rain barrel, and began to wipe the dried blood off his face, grimacing and swearing under his breath. "Well," he said at length. "That wasn't what I expected."

"That they would turn on you, or that we would defend you?" Killian supposed it would be too much to hope for Flint to offer any sort of actual gratitude, and he didn't entirely need it anyway, as this had been more for himself, for his choices about who he was and wanted to be, than for Flint's own sake. "I went ashore, by the way, while this party was going on. Liam, Miranda, and Regina. . . aren't here. They might have been captured by Jennings. I'm. . . not sure."

He braced himself for another outbreak of volcanic rage at this, especially after the rest of the day Flint had had, but the older captain didn't move, still as a statue in the moonlight, only his edges outlined in silver and the rest of his shadow black as ink. He stared at the rain barrel as if contemplating drowning himself in it, then said, "Of course they fucking aren't."

"They're alive." Killian didn't know for certain until he said it, was intending to offer it as some makeshift, hollow platitude for why they should keep on fighting, but at that, an utter and absolute conviction gripped him that it was true, though he did not know how or where. He reached to grip hold of Flint's uninjured shoulder. "They're alive, mate. We have to find them. We're so close now. We are. And what I told you earlier, about Robert Gold – "

"Fucking hell, the man's a mad dog, what does it matter?" Flint sounded unutterably weary. "As I said, he'll savage anyone he sinks his teeth into. I don't even care anymore. Could be that we were just completely deluding ourselves to think that it was ever going to stop, that we could ever get away from it. Unless you have yet another brilliant plan – "

"I don't, really. Not much of one, at any rate. Just this. If Gold is indeed a secret traitor to the Crown, there _is_ one honest Navy captain left in the Caribbean. He smuggled us into Fort Berkeley to rescue Sam, after all. I don't have the _Jolie_ any more, no, but his ship runs just as many guns. If we could pass the news to him, while we were searching for the others – "

"What?" Flint looked blank, then aghast. "Oh no. Oh, no. No. Not him."

"Oh, yes." Killian smiled, with cold, grim satisfaction. "David Nolan."

* * *

Life aboard a pirate ship was not entirely what Liam Jones had expected.

To be fair, he was not quite sure what he _had_ expected. A good deal more drinking and disorder and open outbreaks of general vice and larceny, he supposed – duels on the deck and God knew what taking place below them. Something, in short, as violent, scandalous, and infamous as such men could only be, from all the lurid tales that circulated.

Thus far, however, his sojourn aboard the _Whydah_ had borne no resemblance to any of that. Admittedly, there _was_ plenty of drinking, but no more than on any other seagoing vessel, and it could not be denied that they all very much knew how to sail, trimming sheets or securing knots or otherwise tending to the smooth operation of the ship nearly before Bellamy, the first mate, Paulsgrave Williams, or the quartermaster, Richard Noland, had to ask them to do it. The free Negroes, mulattos, mestizos, and Indians on the crew mixed with the white English, Scots, and Irishmen as full equals, and Liam, who knew a thing or two about captains, could see that Sam Bellamy was a superb one. He treated the men with humor and respect and warmth, and they clearly loved him in turn, but there was just enough steel behind his manner to make it plain that his will would not be crossed. Liam had never seen him order a flogging or raise a hand to anyone, and in turn, there was quite little misbehavior among the ranks – again, surprising, considering his idea of pirates. He had supposed that men who joined a movement whose chief distinguishing feature was its flagrant disregard for the law, archaic and unjust though it might be, must be inherently criminal, or at least inclined to acts of a coarser nature. Then he realized that if he thought it of them, he must think it of Killian, and that ashamed and confounded him.

The one thing they did do, however, was pirate. Liam, Hamilton, and the women had been aboard for a week and a half, and in that time, the _Whydah_ had already encountered three ships – the sailing season was beginning to pick up as it grew later in the spring – and taken them all. Bellamy was extremely clever and strategic, chasing them down by wounding but not destroying them, using the _Whydah's_ size, speed, and firepower to exact rapid surrender. The crew would then go aboard, strip the hold of all its valuables, carry them back, wish everyone a good day, and be on their way. The first time this happened, Liam had been expecting a slaughter, but the men were only allowed to use pistols or swords in self-defense – the pirate who shot someone just for fun went without his supper and his drink, as well as forfeiting his share of the take. The men said that Bellamy was darker these days, had more of an edge, was more dangerous to push too far, but that had never translated into giving them, or himself, a license to kill as they pleased. Perhaps it was in fear that if he took a taste of that seductive medicine, it would be like opening Pandora's Box, and he refused to let those horrors escape. Was still, even now, bound and determined that that fell creature inside him should not win.

In any case, Liam and Lord Archibald had an excellent vantage to hear the crew's thoughts, as they slept belowdecks with them, in hammocks strung up by the bulkhead. Miranda slept in Sam's bed in the cabin, and Regina on the davenport, though sometimes she slipped below to join Liam late at night. Lord Archibald had been nonplussed by these arrangements – as an aristocrat, a governor, and a former Royal Navy captain, he had expected to receive the cabin for his own use. When he said so, Sam had given him a very cool look and answered, "Both of you will sleep, eat, work, and live with my men, getting exactly as they do – no more, no less. You will be protected and treated according to the articles of this ship, and of the pirate brethren. England's writ does not run here, Hamilton. Is that clear?"

Seeing as neither of them wanted to risk ending up back in the rowboat, Lord Archibald had agreed, if grudgingly. He and Liam refused to take part in the capture of ships, as that would mean actively engaging in piracy themselves, and they were thus excused from doing so, but this meant that they did not receive any of the spoils either. No matter how much they wanted to think they were above such earthly emoluments, Lord Archibald clearly was not (given his fondness for taking bribes as governor, no wonder) and it was getting to Liam himself more than he wanted to admit. Bellamy had been enjoying a run of dazzling success – the last ship they had captured was that of an English customs officer, laden to the gills with a year's worth of taxation from the Indies and the southern American colonies, and Sam had taken vast pleasure in relieving him of it – and the _Whydah's_ hold almost groaned with treasure. Of course it had been gotten by illegality and force, though if you asked the pirates that had been on the customs officer's end and not theirs, and Liam had no illusions about being much of a good man anymore, knew just how weak and susceptible to temptation he was. But still.

The one of them who was finally happy and at some ease, after all the danger and ordeal, was Miranda. As noted, she slept with Sam, and was usually to be seen with him on deck, where the crew would all politely hail her when she passed. They spent much time talking, or otherwise alone together, and while Liam did not think the relationship was an intimate one, not exactly, it was clear from the way they acted around each other that it had happened at least a few times before. Yet, odd as it sounded, he did not have the sense that Miranda was carrying on a clandestine affair behind Flint's back, but rather that Sam was somehow just another part of whatever that was. Liam did not suppose it was his business to pry, though vulgar curiosity could not be entirely defeated, so he kept his mouth shut.

Lord Archibald, however, was not quite as scrupulous. He already had a rather dim opinion of Miranda from what he regarded as her betrayal and dishonor of the Hamilton family name, taking up with Flint and fleeing London after the scandal with his cousin Thomas, and that night as Miranda went with Sam to the cabin and Liam and Lord Archibald went below, the erstwhile governor grumbled, "It's bad enough we're stuck down here, but to have to watch her consorting and cavorting with another pirate before my very eyes? And one such as. . . that. There _are_ rumors about Bellamy, you know, and I have happened to hear a few. When he was in my employ, Captain Jennings had quite some tales to tell about – "

He stopped, both at mentioning Jennings and at the look on Liam's face, as he regarded it as the height of hypocrisy to use that animal to censure anyone else for gross indecency. "Oh, yes," Liam said coldly. "I'm sure _Captain_ Jennings was most an authority on such matters."

Lord Archibald flinched, but did not back down. "Do you know why Bellamy left the Navy? Nearly destroyed the career of Captain Hume of the _Scarborough_ over it, from what I heard – false accusations of such a crime, a very serious nature, especially since all the evidence seems to suggest that Bellamy was guilty of it himself. For the men to respect a captain such as that, a – "

He broke off, realized he was speaking rather loudly and might be overheard by any of said men, and lowered his voice. "A dirt-poor Devonshire farm boy," he went on, though Liam was quite sure that that was not what he had intended to say. "No family pedigree at all, and to accuse a son of such well-respected gentry – most presumptuous and arrogant indeed. If Miranda is not content with the damage she has done to the Hamilton family already, now she's bedding with a pirate and a – and a – " Lord Archibald could still not quite get his mouth around the word. "Mark me, it won't come to a good end, whether here or in – "

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Liam had finally had enough. "No matter what you're so desperate to accuse him of, Sam Bellamy saved your damn life. As did I, several times, by the way! As for your precious _bloody_ family honor, a governor deposed for treason, hiring Henry fucking Jennings in the first place and then being arrested by him, taking bribes from pirates, and otherwise greasing his way through the whole stinking system doesn't have much room to talk! As for Miranda, it's thanks to her relationship with Bellamy that he took us aboard, gave us food and shelter, and has treated us so fairly in the first place! Considering he was nearly hanged on Antigua just weeks ago, a lesser man would have thrown you – both of us – in the brig to make us suffer for it! Do you think he would have been given anything remotely like this, if he fell into your hands, or any of your fellows? He wouldn't! You were a captain too, my _lord,_ but I suppose your wealthy father bought your commission, so you've never known what life was like for one of your common sailors. I did. I _bloody_ well did, I knew worse than that. Arrest me too if you like, but perhaps it will get through your fucking head why I captained the _Imperator_ as I did?"

He caught himself close to shouting, as he again would prefer not to have Bellamy's crew listening in on this, but it felt so good to finally vent some of his frustration that he could have gone on for a while. He half-expected Lord Archibald to hit him, or at least to try, but the governor was staring back at him, stricken and white-faced. There was a heavy silence. Then at last, in a very quiet voice, Hamilton said, "You're right."

"What?" Liam had been prepared for more argument, or a few good accusations hurled back at him, and this caught him on the hop. "What did you say?"

"You're right," Hamilton repeated. A shudder passed through him, and he seemed to crumple, his fine clothes salt-stained and worn and showing the results of a use and a work they had never before endured. "I have behaved abominably toward you, and to my cousin, and to Captain Bellamy, considering the magnitude of the extremity that all of you rescued me from, and for which I have shown but poor and mean repayment. The destruction and despoliation of the Jacobite cause, the ruin of all my hard work and sacrifice. . . but that is not an excuse. The world is changed, Captain Jones. Our old lives are over. Even a blind man can see that. I . . . I was always afraid of Jennings, you know. I pretended that I was not, and I told myself that it did not matter who he truly was, since his nature would never be turned against me so long as I paid him well. That he was merely a useful tool, the sort of disagreeable but essential servant that all powerful men keep close. That was my mistake, and it is only fair that now I pay for it."

Liam was confused but rather impressed, despite himself. "Well," he said gruffly, after a moment. "I can't say that my own downfall was any less eventful than yours, Governor, or less painful. And like you, I thought my choices could be blamed on other men, that whatever had become of me, there was surely someone else who must take the greater portion of the sin. But they're not. They can't be. After all, it's led us to the same place." He waved a hand at their surroundings. "And yet, it could be far worse."

Hamilton considered that, then nodded. Almost tentatively, as if expecting to be slapped away or shouted at again, he held out his hand. "I'm sorry, Captain. You have done far more for me than I should have any right to expect, or which I have thanked you for. You must think me an utter boor, without chivalry or decency or even common sense. I regret it."

"I think you a man whose whole world has fallen apart overnight," Liam said quietly. "As I said. I doubt I, or anyone, can make claims to handling it better."

With that, he reached out, and shook Lord Archibald's hand. Both of them seemed to let go an unconscious breath, as if the frost of tension and anger and judgment seemed to have finally melted, and which Liam would never have expected – and that, he thought wryly, was rather the point. He turned over, settled down, and for the first time since coming aboard the _Whydah,_ did not dream at all when he slept.

He was woken very early the next morning, in the cool dawn greyness, by a tap on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes, half-expecting to see Killian, the only person it could be in the days when he had slept in a hammock belowdecks – or at least the only one who would rouse him gently. As he squinted, however, he saw that it was Sam Bellamy himself. "Jones," he said, quietly so as not to stir Lord Archibald. "Perhaps we could talk?"

"Ah – yes, yes, of course." Liam bit back a yawn and rolled out, pulling his shirt over his head and stuffing on his boots, following Bellamy up to the deck. The _Whydah_ sat on a perfect rose-pink sunrise sea, like the delicate insides of an oyster with a pearl, golden mist furling into the distance as if conjured from some dreamy enchantment. It occurred to Liam to wonder if someone had told the captain what they heard last night; either way, he had the sense that there was quite little that happened aboard the ship of which Bellamy was unaware. At last, as they were leaning on the railing, he said, "Thank you. For taking us aboard. And everything since."

Sam raised a dark eyebrow. "You _are_ Killian's brother. I'd not leave you to drown."

"Yes, but. . . with Lord Archibald, and the rest. . ." Liam looked down at the quartz-colored rime that lapped gently against the hull. "And likewise, I've not said a word in gratitude, because I've been too busy wondering when you would reveal yourself as a depraved degenerate and a murderous outlaw. Too busy judging you to see what you had done for us. I'm sorry."

Bellamy did not answer at first. Then he remarked, "Spurred by something, was this?"

"Yes, last night. I shouted at Hamilton, and realized I was guilty of it myself, what I chastised him for. You're an. . . you're an honorable man. I didn't think it was possible for a pirate to be so, and as usual, I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"I need neither your absolution nor your apology nor your patronization nor anything else you think you can possibly give me," Sam Bellamy said. "But I thank you for offering it. You're like Killian, in a way. Not entirely, though."

Liam was oddly flattered at the idea that this man should think he was like his brother, and wondered then if this was how it was for Killian, who had spent so long hoping to be told that he was like Liam. Wanted to ask how Sam had turned pirate, but knew as well that it was something to which he had no right. Bellamy was several years younger than him, Killian's age, and since Liam had spent so long as both father and brother to Killian, he might once have tried to assert his authority over Sam, whether by seniority or by rank – the world regarded a Navy captain as far superior to a pirate captain, after all. _Not that I still am._ He was a foundling plucked from the sea, with that sense he had had after the storm, that the past was gone, the future unformed. It seemed nearly the most beautiful morning he had ever seen, or perhaps the very first.

"We need to find the others," Liam said at last. "The reason we were out there, the reason we went to Jamaica in the first place, was to get a pardon for Emma. That was as well why I had to rescue Lord Archibald, so it still might be worth something, or at least able to trade it for one."

"For Emma?" Bellamy regarded him thoughtfully. "Not something you did on your own accord, then, I imagine?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Only that surely it was because your brother asked you to, and not because you have any desire to personally assist a pirate." The word was spoken lightly, but with enough of a stress for Liam to recognize the sharp point being driven against him. "Since that's still how you see her, and me. Perhaps honor can emerge from such a place, in your eyes, but what if it didn't? What if I was exactly the scum you thought I was? Would I then have earned the place on the gallows that Gold and Hume were so very eager to provide for me?"

"I – " Liam flushed. Despite his own defection from the Navy and desire to never go back, it was true that he still very much did regard pirates in a certain light, and he could not disentangle himself from it all at once. "I don't know," he said at last, as honestly as he could. "I don't know the choices you made, or why. What Lord Archibald seemed to think, about Hume – "

"I confessed it before half of Antigua." Bellamy's tone remained courteous, but cold and forbidding as a frozen lake. "If you wish to hear the sordid details, you can ask your friend Hamilton, who seems so well informed on my personal affairs."

"I – doubt he knows the real truth, and I wouldn't do that." Liam made himself meet Sam's dark, flat gaze, feeling discomfited in a way he rarely did. The younger man was an inch or two taller than him, further increasing the sense of, for once, standing in someone else's shadow. "Your past is your own. As I said, I'm the last man who has much right to judge. But – "

"Much?" Bellamy asked, still mildly. "So you do have some?"

"I." Liam looked down. "I didn't mean that."

Sam considered him a moment longer, then nodded. "No," he said. "I suppose you didn't. But if you're doing what you're doing not because of Emma, but for Killian, then I am doing what I am doing not for you, but for Killian – and Miranda. He's told me a bit about you. I admire what you've done for him, and the strength and devotion you showed each other. But as you could not summon up any respect for me until you learned I was what you would consider honorable, I am not sure I can summon up any respect for you. I like you well enough, to be sure. You seem a hard worker, and the men have no complaints. Yet so long as you sit there silently disdaining us to yourself, considering yourself as yet too good, too unsullied, to take part in our life, even after what became of your brother, and your own cowardice – then no, Liam. I cannot respect you, or feel as if we have very much in common. My honor is my own. I'd rather not share yours."

Liam's cheeks stung as if he had been slapped, even as he forced himself to accept this without his pride rising rashly to his defense, saying something he could not take back. Again he thought of Killian, always the one convinced that he deserved the scorn between the two Jones brothers, that Liam could do no wrong, and how Liam himself had never uttered a word to correct him. Instead he said quietly, "You love Killian very much, don't you."

Sam looked at him steadily, considering his answer. "Yes," he said at last. "And Emma."

"They are lucky to have you." Liam stared out at the golden spun-glass sun in the eastern sky. "For whatever reasons either of us are doing it, I ask – I _beg_ you – let me get that pardon to her."

Bellamy's long-fingered, elegant hands closed tightly on the railing, as if bracing himself. For a moment he seemed to be engaged in his own ferocious internal struggle, facing something he had kept tamped down for fear of breaking, and though it was likely a trick of the light, Liam briefly thought his eyes seemed wet. Then he drew a great, slow, shuddering breath and squared his shoulders. "Very well," he said, turned, and at last, held out his hand. "Let's do it."

They decided that the most likely chance of reconnoitering with either Flint or Killian lay in sailing south and west from Tortola, to the corridor between Jamaica and Antigua. Liam felt sure that their failure to return as scheduled would have alarmed _someone,_ and that they would have set out to look for them. He hoped they had not run into further difficulties in Jamaica, or a _Bathsheba_ out for bloody revenge whether Jennings was alive or dead, though this seemed far too optimistic to hope for. But Sam was determined, and Liam equally so, and with their combined talents, they plotted out a number of potential courses in decreasing order of likelihood. They would sail the entire damn Caribbean if they had to, though they hoped not.

It was into April by now, the weather getting warmer and fairer all the time, and they had to keep a sharp eye out for the Navy reinforcements that would be getting to Antigua any day. If it was just a question of finding Emma, they could return to the Maroons' island, where as far as Liam knew she still was, but then whoever had set out to track down him and the women would remain in danger, and he could not repress the hope that it was his brother. He wanted to see Killian again. He wanted to tell him that at last, after everything, he might finally understand.

It was a week or so into the search when, in a clear hot afternoon where the sun dazzled the waves like sapphires, someone shouted from the bow. They had spotted two ships on the horizon, one familiar and one less so, but the ships had also seen them, and the almighty shout that went up from all three as they drew nearer left no one in any doubt. There was a small island nearby, not much more than a broad, shallow sandbar with a few palm trees, but all of them dropped anchor in the cove and could barely launch their boats fast enough.

As they waded ashore out of the waves, gasping, laughing, Liam felt his heart do something strange, as if it was too raw and large and light and fragile to fit in his chest. He saw Miranda running past him and straight into Flint's arms, where they held onto each other and did not let go, and he saw Sam running to Killian and Emma and gathering them both into his arms (they both kissed him and then swayed on the spot and likewise did not move). Indeed, among so many joyous, disbelieving reunions, Liam felt rather shy, tentative, not sure if he deserved one of his own, as if peering through a crack in the door to a place he longed to go, but did not dare. Then Killian glanced up, over Sam's shoulder, and saw him.

Liam looked back at him, content just for that, to gaze at his little brother and know that he was alive, that it had not been in vain, but after a moment, Killian let go of Sam, took Emma by the sleeve, and crossed the sand toward him. Foolishly, the only thing Liam could think to say was, "Aren't you – shouldn't you be back on the island, it must be nearly your – "

"It's a long story," Emma said wryly, resting a hand on her enormous belly and grimacing. "We thought you might be – well. It's good to see you."

"It is, likewise, a long story. But. . ." Liam hesitated, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the waterlogged, bent, torn, but still-sealed, still-good pardon. "This is for you."

Emma looked at it, then up at him. Rose onto her tiptoes, and kissed his scruffy cheek. There were several things Liam wanted to say, but felt rather too shy and jumbled-up to do so. Yet perhaps she sensed them, because she gave him a soft, tender smile. In that moment, at last and as well, he thought that perhaps he hadn't done it merely for Killian, for the sake of some cold and hollow promise to his brother, but for the living. No matter what, or who.

Flint and Miranda were married that very evening, on the beach. They seemed to have decided that at last, after so many separations and struggles and sacrifices, they simply could not be sure that they would have another chance, and that no matter what came for them after this, no matter how long or short they had, they did not want to say that they had missed it. It was very simple, standing beneath the shadows of the palms as the tropical sun splashed into the red west. Sam performed the ceremony, and Killian, Emma, Henry, Charlie, Will, Liam, Regina – and, surprisingly, Billy and Abigail – stood as witnesses. Some of the men from the _Whydah_ or the _Walrus_ glanced in, but they were too busy enjoying themselves on the beach to pay much attention. Sam had brought out casks of drink and plenty of food and delicacies from all his prizes, and hence nobody would be grumbling or plotting mutiny tonight.

After Sam pronounced them husband and wife, Flint and Miranda merely stood there, holding onto each other, foreheads pressed together and not saying a word, as the stars began to blossom brilliantly overhead. Liam could not say he knew either of them terribly well, though the mission to Jamaica had given him a sort of understanding with Miranda, and surviving their ordeal adrift had given him more, but he felt it down to his bones nonetheless. Next to him, Emma's head was on Killian's shoulder, his arm around her, their fingers entwined, and Killian wore a very soft expression as he kissed her hair. In this, in now, it felt worth it. No matter the fight that still remained, the utter and absolute, the culmination, the end, this would remain, small and perfect. Just for now. Just for tonight.

The wedding party left the trees and went down to the bonfires, where several toasts were offered to the bride and groom; everyone, after all, was in a riotously, boozy good mood, and inclined to forgive Flint his peccadilloes, as long as he did not do something else terrible on the spot. Liam noticed Lord Archibald watching tentatively, an odd expression on his face. The former governor surely felt out of place at the raucous celebrations, and now he was seeing his kinswoman marry the man, the pirate captain, with whom – so far as the world knew – she had disgraced the family and sent Thomas into insanity. But if nothing else, the sheer and unconquerable love and devotion Flint and Miranda felt for each other was clear; they sat hand in hand, sipping from a cup of rum, not saying much, just taking every moment they could to be here, together. At last, Abigail Ashe said timidly, "So – are you still going to take me to Charlestown? I'm sure I could persuade my father to – "

"You can't go to Charlestown."

Heads turned, looking for the speaker, and with great surprise (to himself as much as the rest) it was discovered to be, in fact, Lord Archibald. He looked appalled at his own nerve, but resolute, as if whatever he and Liam had acknowledged that night aboard the _Whydah_ – the change and catastrophic destruction of the worlds they had known, and their flaws and failures at facing it – had to be seen through. "It is Lord Peter Ashe who is governor there, is it not?"

"So far as she told us, yes." Flint's eyes narrowed, as if he would try very hard not to get into a brawl on his wedding night, but if Lord Archibald was up to anything funny, he would make no promises. "Why? We already know they hang pirates, and doubtless you would as well if you were back on Jamaica. But Lord Peter is an old friend of ours, and since we have his daughter – "

"I know." Lord Archibald was having difficulty with the words, but to his credit, and which was not something many men could manage, looked straight into Flint's eyes. "I am, as doubtless you recall from our first meeting, Thomas Hamilton's cousin. I know something of that whole scandal, and why Lord Alfred began to suspect his son. Of why it happened at all."

Both Flint and Miranda flinched at the mention of Lord Alfred, though Liam was not entirely sure why. Alfred Hamilton – was that the one murdered several years aboard the ship he was traveling on, the _Marie Elaine,_ by a mysterious pirate in the night? It had been quite a shock and horror for a powerful English nobleman to be cut down so brutally, but –

"Oh?" Flint's face had gone pale and cold as snow, as his grip tightened on Miranda's hand. "And what, pray, does that have to do with Peter Ashe?"

"Because." Lord Archibald hesitated a final moment, teetered at the brink, and then went for it, throwing himself into the abyss. "Because he betrayed you."


	35. XXXV

**-XXXV-**

For the first few instants after Hamilton's cannonball of a conversation-ender, Emma thought Flint was going to laugh. She thought she might too, because surely there was no other proper response to such a clumsy and transparent attempt to stop them from getting pardons. That, after all, must be what Hamilton was doing, and remarkably ungratefully, given the number of times they had saved his life – Emma had spent the afternoon getting the full story of Jamaica from Liam and Miranda, and catching up as much as she could with Sam. But despite the accidents and misadventures, the Charlestown gambit was still the plan. Hamilton was evidently trying to squash the possibility, but why? He couldn't want to mend fences with Gold, after everything. Perhaps he thought he could get his comfortable position and life back, or perhaps he was so embittered by Flint and Miranda's marriage, the final nail in the coffin for the disgrace of his family name, that he had concocted this devastating fable, trying to destroy their fragile happy ending before it ever had a chance. After all, with no pardons from Lord Peter, that dream of a life together was gone. They would either have to fight to the bitter end, or throw themselves on the Crown's utterly dubious idea of mercy when it came to their kind – and more specifically, them. No matter what, Gold, Jennings, and the rest would make sure they suffered.

"You're lying," Flint said, the first one to recover the power of speech, as he had apparently worked this out an instant ahead of Emma. "You just can't stand the idea of us insulting your precious honor like this, so you think you'll scare us away from even trying to make it out alive. Not that I should expect anything different – your father and Lord Alfred were brothers, were they not? No wonder you spring from such a foul fucking pit of – "

"I assure you, I am not nearly mad enough to lie about this, especially to a man like you." Though Lord Archibald flinched at the sight he was presently confronted with, he held his ground. "Whatever – justifiably, perhaps – low opinion you may hold of my honor, I am in fact attempting to do the right thing. Captain Jones and Captain Bellamy saved my life and treated me well, when I gave them scant reason for it. Miranda _is_ my cousin-in-law, and Thomas. . ." He stopped, clearly gathering from the thunderous look on Flint's face that he broached this subject at his utter and mortal peril. "Well. As you yourself said, Lord Alfred was my uncle. I was. . . aware of developments. Did you not ever wonder why you were found out and betrayed, at precisely the right moment to destroy your political ambitions and your lives together? Did you truly think it was a coincidence or sheer bad luck? And you know, you _must_ know, that there was only one man in position to provide all that information to your enemies. Lord Peter Ashe."

Flint, who had been starting to get to his feet, froze in place, like a troll that had ventured out too close to daybreak and turned to stone. All the merriment of the wedding party seemed to be turned to cold and poison – to, horribly fittingly, to ash. It was clearly taking every drop of his composure not to roar at the men to get out right now, when they were lazing on the beach with their victuals and their drink, completely unaware of this horrible dark shadow sinking teeth and claws into them. Finally he barked, "This way. Now."

He, Miranda, Emma, Killian, Liam, and Sam got up from the fire, following Lord Archibald up into the palm grove, the waxing moon turning sand and sea to silver glass. Glancing over her shoulder, Emma saw Abigail Ashe looking after them with an understandably distressed expression, and opened her mouth to ask what they were going to do with the poor girl, but now was not the moment for such questions. Flint was lit to the point of total detonation, and for the first time that Emma could remember, Miranda was making no effort at all to calm him down or walk him back. Indeed, her face was a smooth, lovely, ice-cold mask, broken only by the deep-kindled, soul-consuming, impossible, agonized rage burning in her brown eyes. Always so gentle, so calm, so kind, so patient, so wise – everything that Emma had known Miranda to be. The one who had said she was tired of fighting after giving herself to it for so long, hoping the next battle would somehow make a difference, when it never did. To see this now, this utter, unbearable desolation and destruction, was almost worse than Flint's open fury.

"You," Flint said at last, fighting the word into even a raw simulacrum of courtesy with a terrible effort. "You're not just making this up? If this is some vile fucking trick, I _swear –_ "

"As I said, I would not dare. And I am quite certain." Lord Archibald's eyes darted between Flint and Miranda, as if he might have long imagined this moment of bringing them low, but now that he had, it was not nearly so satisfying as he thought. "I believe it was made clear to Lord Peter that his options were to be tarred as a traitor with the rest of you, his life and career destroyed likewise, or he could tell them everything he knew and be spared, receive a new commission overseas. He had a family, a young daughter – surely you could not expect him to accept exile into outlawry and piracy with the same ease you did? He had no choice, he only – "

"Had no _choice?"_ Miranda's voice cracked like a whip. "You think it was _easy for us,_ and that he had _no choice?_ How _dare_ you! I had a choice, James had a choice, and we made them! Fled to New Providence, to those years of pain and rage and darkness, while Lord Peter built the very city of Charlestown, and his comfortable life, on our misery? It never once troubled him, he never lifted a finger to find us or help us or clear our names, while the city hanged all the pirates it could? Because he had a _daughter?_ You mean such as the daughter I never bore, to Thomas or to James, the ghost of a child I dreamed up to keep me company on another long, unbearable night alone in my hut in the jungle? Lord Peter murdered them, and the daughter I did finally come to have was once more thanks to Charlestown's cruelty and neglect, Leopold White lining his pockets and preserving his _honor_ at the expense of his disgraced, abandoned maidservant! It is a city of liars and thieves and traitors, bought and paid for in sin and selfishness, a reeking sty of filth and greed! I want it torn to the ground! I want to burn the entire _fucking_ place down with my bare hands!"

Everyone stared at her, as if barely able to believe that these words were coming from Miranda – the one of them who, like Sam, was their voice of reason and restraint and sense, the one who urged compassion and sanity and a view to a future that she herself believed in a little less every day. But as they had found Sam's breaking point, they had most undoubtedly found Miranda's, and she turned to Flint with tears brimming in her eyes, overflowing down her cheeks. "Forgive me," she said. "I kept pushing you to stop, to make terms, to give up the fight, to turn away from this. I thought you had done all you could do and then some. I thought you had become the one in the wrong. James. Forgive me."

Flint did not look at his wife, or indeed at anyone. He remained rooted to the spot in a sort of horrified trance, as if he could barely comprehend or process the enormity of this. Emma and Killian exchanged a stunned look of their own, as this likewise threw their own future into utter disarray. They could fault neither Flint nor Miranda for their reaction to this news, but if it was followed by sailing to Charlestown and fulfilling her request for its fate, it would light the New World literally afire and end any hope of any governor anywhere granting any of them another pardon. Indeed, Killian might have to return to Blackbeard and make another deal to get the _Jolie_ back, since it was an absurd liability, especially now, to be sailing around in such a tiny ship with so few guns and thinking that one of the others would protect them. But of course, the reason he had given it up in the first place was to leave the pirate life, to run away with Emma and Henry and the child. To go back –

Emma almost couldn't breathe, felt as if a giant fist was gripping her heart and lungs and crushing them flat. It was almost impossible to believe that barely an hour ago, they had all been so happily at the wedding and then at the fireside, dreaming of a future together, and a life away from war. She looked apprehensively at Sam, not sure what she might see, which way he might be leaning – he had restrained from burning St. John's in his hour of darkness, as Killian had told her, but he had said as well that he wished he had done it, that he wanted all of them dead. Would he now accept Charlestown as a suitable substitute, especially given his relationship with Flint and Miranda? Was he going to finally pass that point of no return?

Sam's face, however, was utterly expressionless, though he clenched a fist so hard that his knuckles went white. He turned abruptly away, hit the stout trunk of the nearest palm tree a few times, and inhaled a ragged breath through his nose. Emma took a step toward him, as she knew that Sam's instinct, even in his extremity, was to help people, to make them happy, to care for them. But if he did that now, if he agreed to the destruction of Charlestown to support Flint and Miranda's final, furious revenge, it would come at the cost of his own soul. If he went under those dark waters, there was no coming up.

Yet as Emma reached for him, that breathless, half-painful clutch at her innards came again, squeezing and twisting until she grimaced. At the same time, she became aware of a soaking wetness in her breeches, which she had totally overlooked in the general turmoil of the past ten minutes. She had gone through this once before, and while she prayed she was mistaken, she was unfortunately and unshakably aware that she wasn't. "Killian," she said, in a gulp. "Killian, I think – I think the baby's coming."

He whirled around with an aghast look, as this was the only thing that could make the situation even worse. It was, after all, a tiny island in the middle of nowhere, and Miranda, Abigail, and Regina were the only other women present. They were surrounded by drunken pirates partying on the beach, as well as Lord Archibald and a completely beside-himself Flint, which hardly inspired much confidence in the event of things going wrong – and if they did, they couldn't exactly run and fetch someone who knew how to fix it. Charlie and Henry should not be expected to help, they were too young, and would much rather avoid seeing things that could not be forgotten. Killian would surely stay with her, but he only had one hand. So what – Liam and Sam? See if Billy felt like moonlighting as a midwife?

At least Emma had certainly succeeded in getting everyone's attention, and it was Sam who spoke, moving to offer her his arm. "I can take you to the _Whydah,_ the bed will be the most comfortable. Do you think you can make it there, or – "

"I – no, I can't give birth in your bed, it would be a mess." Emma grimaced again. She was also not sure that the prospect of a rowboat ride out to the ships sounded particularly appetizing right now, and felt almost guilty for interrupting the urgency of the moment – even though she, of course, had absolutely no control over when this chose to happen. She had known it would be very soon – it was April, it was time, though this might be early by a week or two. Better here than at sea, or in a storm, as at least she would have solid ground and several assistants. Henry had taken hours, but they said second births usually went faster. How much so, Emma did not know, nor wanted to press her luck in finding out.

As for Miranda, she remained where she was a moment longer, then stepped away and came toward Emma, taking hold of her other arm, though Emma could feel her hands shaking. With Killian nervously trotting alongside, Liam heading off to find Regina – dangerous as the woman might be, she did at least have a knowledge of plants and potions and medicines – and Flint deciding on the instant that he was not interested in volunteering and striding off into the darkness, Sam and Miranda steered Emma to a sheltered patch of sand. Sam took off his coat and spread it on the ground, as Killian did likewise, then helped Emma to sit. "We'll need more," he said. "This is no place for it. I'm sorry, love. You should never have had to – "

"Killian, I chose to come with you." Emma put a hand on his arm. "I knew this could happen. But all of you – Miranda, it's your wedding night, you shouldn't have to spend it like this – "

Miranda gave her a faint, catching smile. "Do you really think it would be so joyous otherwise?"

Emma had no idea what to say to that, and gasped instead as another pain hit. Miranda knelt down and began tearing her petticoats into strips to use as clean rags, Sam went to fetch water, and Killian, clearly desperate to be useful and lacking any other apparent way to do so, hesitated, then offered Emma his rum flask. "Will this help, lass?"

Emma was about to refuse, then decided that this child was, after all, the progeny of pirates, and took a long slug. It burned all the way down, but it kindled a small ember of warmth in her stomach that indeed made her not feel the next contraction quite as keenly. By then, Sam had returned, hauling two large buckets of fresh water, and Will, Abigail, and Regina were trailing along behind, looking – at least for the most part – nervous but determined to be of whatever assistance they could. Regina was, of course, the exception, but she threw a dirty look at Killian and said, "Put that rum away, Jones. I have something that will actually help."

With that, she pulled a small phial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and held it out to Emma. Emma hesitated one last time, but Liam had said he trusted her, and Regina _had_ gone through hell on Emma's behalf to obtain the pardon and not yet said a word about it. Emma looked at her a moment longer, then nodded, took a deep breath, and drank it.

The effects were pleasantly quick, making her entire body feel relaxed and dreamy, not quite in her purview, and certainly not in pain. Rather too late, Emma wondered if it was more of the vodou medicine that Regina traded with the Maroons, or even a pinch of the zombie poison, which was said to produce this same deliriously dissociative effect. But if she had been on the Maroons' island as originally planned, she might have been given this same stuff anyway, and at least it didn't hurt. Instead she leaned back and watched them through something of a hazy remove. Sam and Will had gone to fetch more blankets to render her makeshift birthing bed as comfortable as they could, and Abigail began to wet the rags and hang them neatly over a twisted root. Killian sat next to Emma, holding her hand tightly, as Miranda acted as midwife, looking to see how things were coming along and ordering the others for whatever she needed. Despite the strangeness and inconvenience and generally improvised nature of the whole thing, Emma could not help an odd, poignant rush of gratitude. All these people here, helping her, ignoring their own struggles and heartbreak to do so, putting her first, being her family. She had not dreamed of such a thing since she was twelve years old and her parents were dead of typhoid, leaving her alone with Charlie and no choice but to try to get them to the Americas together, to start a new life. From that, in whatever long, strange, dangerous, tender way it had taken, to here, and knowing what now lay after it. She couldn't lose them. She couldn't.

Her labor went on well into the night, as the effects of Regina's drug began to wear off and the pain returned. Emma bit her lip on her grunts and moans of effort, not wanting to cause a band of boozy pirates to crash in to see what was going on; she could do without their well-wishes, thanks. Regina gave her a second, smaller dose, which took some of the edge off, but it was still faster, harder, sharp and straining, as Sam took charge of her other hand and Emma thought she might accidentally break both of the men's fingers. But neither of them said a word, or tried to get her to loosen her grip. Abigail moved behind her to brace her shoulders, as Emma hissed and struggled, digging her heels into the sand. It hurt, God, it _fucking_ hurt, she could feel sweat rolling down her cheeks and sticking her braid to the back of her neck. She tore at Sam and Killian's hands as Miranda steadied her legs, Will ordered a curious onlooker to get lost immediately, and Regina passed up wet rags. Whatever might happen, whatever _was_ happening, she was still not, not at all, alone.

The pains reached a desperate, wrenching zenith, Emma threw all her strength into a final, almighty shove, and felt a rush of hot blood on her legs. This was followed a few instants later by the unmistakable cry of an infant, as Miranda moved to catch something small and slippery, bundled it in the ruins of her petticoat, and took Sam's offered knife to cut the cord and tie it off. She accepted a few of the rags from Regina and cleaned the baby, then wrapped it in one of the spare blankets and looked up at Killian and Emma, who were staring at her in mutual desperation. Very quietly, she said, "You have a daughter."

Emma let out a long, jagged breath, sagging back against Sam and Killian, as both of them uttered delighted noises and kissed her. There was the afterbirth to deliver and more cleaning up to do, but then at last, Miranda gently handed the child to Emma. She had given up crying by now, and was sucking on her tiny thumb, though rather resentfully that it was not supplying any food. It being dark, it was impossible to say what she looked like, apart from the usual red and wrinkled newborn. But Emma felt a rush of raw, disbelieving, utter, unspeakable love at the small, perfect weight in her arms, curled against her chest, as she looked up to see Killian gazing at them in mesmeric fascination. She shifted the baby slightly, got a hand free, and pulled him down for another slow, weary, sweet kiss. "How about that," she whispered. "A daughter."

He nodded, making a choked sound, as he ran a thumb very lightly over the child's forehead, as if in fear of breaking or sullying or otherwise spoiling her, this creature of pure innocence that surely could not have sprung in any way from him. They sat there for some intangible length of time, lost in the moment, until the baby stirred and began to fuss, and Emma shifted again to nurse her. Once this was done and she had been settled and fallen back asleep, Emma said shakily, "Well, I suppose we. . . we did choose her name."

"Aye." Killian's eyes had not moved off them in about the last hour, but at this, he shook himself and looked at Miranda and Sam. "We were – with your blessing, of course – planning to call her Geneva Elizabeth. For Miranda's friend, and Sam's mother."

At that, both of them looked utterly stricken, but not in horror. Miranda's eyes welled with tears again as she pressed her hands to her mouth and turned away, and Sam seemed to be at a loss for words. Then at last, he nodded. "Aye," he said quietly. "Aye, of course."

It was close to dawn by now, and Emma dozed for a few hours, exhausted and still sore and bleeding, as Abigail took over tending her. She hadn't said a word since the revelation of her father's treachery, as if they might turn on her if she reminded them of her presence, and perhaps she felt safer here as well, as if even the most sorely ill-mannered ruffians would not kill her before a new mother's childbed. Emma did hope she was right about that, for any number of reasons, though when she woke up, Abigail was gone. It was a cool rose-blue early morning, and she was ravenously hungry.

When Killian had brought her some breakfast, and they ate together as the sun began to edge up the horizon, Emma refused to say what she had realized, the thought that was inescapable in her head, overshadowing the joy and relief of little Geneva Elizabeth Jones' safe arrival. She wanted to keep this moment perfect for as long as she could, to remember it this way. When they had finished, she said, "Where's Miranda?"

"Over there." Killian nodded at the palm grove. "She took Geneva so you could rest."

Emma's throat closed as she looked over to see the silent, solitary figure of Miranda among the trees, still wearing her bloody and torn petticoat, holding the sleeping baby and staring out to sea. She could not fail to be in unimaginable emotional turmoil. Married last night to Flint at last, only to have it immediately soured and shaken to the core by the shocking disclosure of Lord Peter's betrayal, and her own furious, heartbroken plea to burn Charlestown to the ground, that their revenge had not been finished but indeed barely begun. Then attending the birth of her adopted grandchild, given the name of the daughter she had always wanted to have for herself with either of her husbands, but never did. Now seeing this new life, this promise of the future that seemed to become ever more perversely elusive with every turn, and the knowledge they could no longer have it, that there were no more possibilities of pardons, that it would in fact be a fight to the death. Even the strongest souls would buckle under such a burden, and Miranda had been bearing it for years.

Emma watched her, soft and troubled, until Miranda finally turned and came back down the sand. From the look of her eyes, she had been crying for quite a while, but her voice, though rusty, was calm. "Good morning, my dear. Your daughter is beautiful."

Emma reached out to take Geneva, who was making cross sounds clearly in expectation of breakfast, and as she suckled, took the opportunity to finally look at her. Her eyes were blue, though most newborns' were, and though a bit small, she was sturdy and solid, in possession of all her fingers and toes, and there was the faintest dusting of dark hair on the curve of her skull, which fit neatly into Emma's cupping hand. When she had finished her meal and been cleaned and changed, she went straight back to sleep, which Killian regarded with bemusement. "Do they always do that?"

"No," Emma said, with a wry smile. "Some are much fussier. Let's hope it keeps. . . keeps up."

Killian, sensing the faint crack in her voice, looked at her in concern. "Love, what's wrong?"

Emma opened her mouth, could not bring herself to do it, and was distracted just then anyway by the arrival of Sam and Liam. Sam got to hold his goddaughter for the first time, which he did with an intent, tender look, and Liam regarded his niece with a sort of quiet pride. Then he reached out and clapped Killian on the back. "Well done, little brother."

"I don't get any of the credit," Killian said, cheeks rather pink. "Emma did all the work."

"Aye, true." Liam glanced at her. "But a pirate ship is no place for a newborn, and if Lord Ashe's mercy is off the table, it will be even more – "

Emma had not wanted to come out with it so quickly, but now it was staring her in the face, and there was nothing for it. "Liam, you have already done a great deal for me – for us – and I don't want to have to ask more. But I have to."

"Oh?" A slight frown creased Liam's brows. "And what is that?"

Emma reached out and grasped Killian's hand, feeling utterly unready, unable to do this, but knowing that she had to. "I know you don't want to join the pirates outright, and we still have the _Jolly Roger,_ which is a good ship for speed, but not for fighting against much more heavily armed foes. You proposed marriage to me before, since you wanted to take care of us. And so – "

"You proposed _marriage_ to her?" Killian turned on Liam with a glower. "Were you intending to tell me about this?"

"Easy, little brother." Liam looked defensive. "It was only in the event that you got yourself killed going after Antigua, and I would have to look after her and the baby as I promised you. She shot me down rather swiftly, anyway."

Killian opened his mouth, then shut it, clearly unsure whether to be ruffled at this presumption, pleased that Liam had been intending to keep his word, or shyly proud that Emma would choose him over his elder brother, the man he had thought for so long there was no competing with or matching up to. Then he looked back at her with a frown. "Love, what were you going to ask?"

"Just this." Emma swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. "As I said, we have a fast ship at our disposal, and Liam, you don't want to be a pirate, but you're certainly not fighting for the Royal Navy any more. Furthermore, you're right. Lord Ashe's mercy is off the table. There is a battle coming, an ultimate reckoning, and I don't know how long or how terrible, but. . . I shouldn't expect anything less than that. I need you and Regina to take Henry and Geneva to safety. Get them out of the Caribbean. Give them. . . give them their best chance."

Liam, Killian, Sam, and Miranda all stared at her, which was almost more than Emma felt capable of bearing at the moment. Still, she forced herself to continue. "You said that we could go to France, start over there. That's what I want you to do. I have money, I'll give it to you, if you can condescend yourself to accept pirate gold. Take Regina, Henry, and Geneva to Paris. Get a post with the French Navy if you want, but there will be enough that you won't have to. If Killian and I survive, we will come to find you. If not. . ." She closed her eyes, steeling herself. "They will be your children. I'm trusting you with them. Please."

Liam looked floored. He raised a hand to his face, then dropped it. "But you. . ." he said at last. "You have a pardon, Emma. The only one of this lot who does. You could come with us."

"Aye. The only one." Emma gripped her knees, trying to stop her hands shaking. "But if I left my entire family behind to fight and die without me, I. . . I've found it again, I knew it last night, when you were all here with me. I can't abandon them, I can't, and I can't be so selfish as to put my children in the crossfire. According to Miranda, you insisted that I have the pardon. Well, now I'm insisting that you have it. That should please Regina. You were the ones who suffered and fought for it. Get Hamilton to rewrite it for you, and keep Henry and Geneva safe. Give them a real life, a good life, not one where they have to grow up in the smoke of cannonfire and the shadow of bodies swinging from nooses. I know what I'm asking, but. . . you haveto. _Please."_

Liam's mouth had remained open, so he closed it. Then he got up, strode down to the camp on the beach, and returned in a few minutes with Regina, who – for once – did not appear to have a blazing retort on hand. It looked as if Liam had explained the situation to her on the way, but she was still completely at a loss. "This is. . ." she began at last, then stopped. "No, we couldn't. How would we feed her?"

Emma, who had expected Regina's objections to tilt in a far more vehement direction, was likewise caught off guard. It was true that they could not hope to engage a wet nurse until they arrived in France, which was a journey of some weeks even with a good wind and a further few days on the road from Le Havre to Paris, and quite obviously, Geneva would need to eat before then. Emma remained briefly at a loss, until Sam said, "There's a nanny-goat aboard the _Whydah_ that just had a kid and is giving milk. You're welcome to take her with you."

"Fine, then, but you'd give her to me?" Regina's eyes flickered to the peacefully slumbering baby, almost timidly. "And Henry? After everything that I. . . that I. . ."

"You told me that you wanted to be a mother," Liam said, most unexpectedly. "In Antigua, after you rescued me from prison. You said that you might think of taking in a child, a baby. And you – we – we could, you know. Try to build a new life. There are worse choices."

"Yes, but – " Clearly Regina had not expected this to be connected to the presence of the actual flesh-and-blood child in front of her. "You're still a condemned man, because you're too stubborn to take the pardon I tried to get for you. How do you expect to live quietly in France when some outraged English agent could barge in during the night, and drag you to face whatever cooked-up notion of justice they think they can – "

"We have arranged that," Liam said. "If you don't want to come with me, that is of course at your discretion, but I will take the children myself. Though I don't have much experience with babies, I did raise Killian, so I suppose I can manage Henry. Or else – "

"No," Regina said at once, then bit her lip, as if she had taken herself aback with the speed of this response. "No. Leave you in charge of two children alone, one a newborn, while also trying to captain the ship? That would be a disaster. So it looks as if I have to come, doesn't it?"

A charged silence hung in the air after her words, as if the weight of it, the reality, the finality, was sinking over them like lead. Emma was not in the least confident that she was doing the right thing at all: after the years she had already spent far from Henry, working as a pirate to give him a good life, she was now proposing to send him and his infant sister away for what might well be forever? Yet she had never reckoned on Geneva's existence, even more than she hadn't with Henry's, much less falling in love with Killian to boot. If she went to Paris, he would want to go too, but as a convicted and notorious traitor, even France would not be much of a safe haven for long. If he went with them, they would always run the risk of them all being caught and dying for his crimes, and he would never agree to that. Thus if she did go, they would have to be separated again, likely permanently, while Emma knew that she had left him and the rest of her family behind to face the war of the world, to fight and die against their enemies. And when it came down to it, she simply could not. Not again. Henry and Geneva were but children, had never asked for this danger and could not choose to face it as an adult could, could not come of age – if they even lived to do so – on a tide of blood and broken bodies. They had to go. They _had_ to. And if it broke Emma in half in the doing, perhaps it was no more than she deserved.

Slowly, with clumsy, nerveless hands, she lifted Geneva and passed her to Regina, who hesitated, then accepted her, settling her into the crook of her elbow. The baby stirred, snuffled, but didn't wake, turning her head and continuing to sleep, blissfully unaware of how she had just been transacted, and Emma felt something close to a scream burning up her chest, choking her throat, until she almost couldn't stand it. At that moment, she hated Lord Peter Ashe as much as Flint and Miranda must, wanted to burn Charlestown herself in recompense for his treachery and the future he had ripped from them, all the daughters he had stolen. _No more. No more._

Killian reached for her, and she clutched him desperately. She knew that if she held Geneva much more, she would be unable to give her up at all, and so she had to start now, to train herself for the unthinkable. She would miss it all, again. It was Regina whom Geneva would grow up calling mother, Regina who would see her first steps, hear her first words. Regina who would teach her how to be a lady – perhaps for the best, if Emma barely knew how. There was only some tiny, cold, shivering solace in the fact that Liam would be her father, and she would have her elder brother. They'd do well enough, as a little family. They would live.

After a moment, Regina handed Geneva to Miranda, and she and Liam got to her feet and went to find Henry. Nobody said anything after their exit, even though the silence was as raw as an open wound, until an unexpected shadow fell over them. He scarcely looked as if he had spent the night more enjoyably than any of them, and he had cut his ginger ponytail, shaving his head to stubble, as if to ceremoniously prepare himself for war like a samurai of distant Japan. Flint considered them for a moment, barely seemed to need to ask why they looked as if they were at a funeral instead of a birth, and didn't say a word. Then he started to walk away, but Miranda burst out, "James."

Flint stopped. His back was to them, so it was impossible to say what might have showed on his face, and it was a further moment until he turned stiffly. At last he grunted, "Aye?"

"Come," Miranda said quietly. "Come look at your granddaughter."

At that, something passed over Flint's still-frozen expression ever so slightly, the trickle of a spring thaw very far beneath the icy surface of a lake in deepest winter. He seemed briefly about to refuse, then took a few curt steps and glanced down at the baby in Miranda's arms. For an instant, it was possible to sense the magnitude of his own grief, spilling from him as if the river had burst its banks in flood, this dream of an utterly alien life where this was his family, and this was his home, and he was happy, and had not rent himself to dust and vengeance and stone – _flint, flint, flint,_ echoed in his very choice of name – in pursuit of mending the unmendable, and breaking the unbreakable. And yet, it was only for that instant. Then one last time, he raised his castle walls, shut the gates, and went away inside. Looked over at Emma and Killian, and nodded coolly. "She is a charming child," he said. "You must be very proud."

With that, he straightened up, turned again, and strode away down the sand, as Miranda watched him go with an expression of heartbreak to nearly dwarf what Emma felt aching in her own chest. "Excuse me," Miranda said, handing Geneva to Sam and getting to her feet. "I – I need to be alone for a little while."

After she had gone as well, that left only the three of them, not counting the baby: Sam, Killian, and Emma. They remained where they were, staring out at the brilliant blue sky and sea of a luminous spring day, until Sam said, "Where are we going, then?"

Killian glanced sidelong at him, clearly catching the delicate undertones in this. Finally, he said, "Do _you_ think we should burn Charlestown?'

Sam considered. "No," he said quietly. "Do I want to? Yes, but I refuse to let that justify the choice. As well, for better or for worse, Ashe's daughter is still here with us, and you and I promised to protect her when we captured her ship. I hardly think that cutting her father down before her eyes, in cold blood, qualifies as such. The question, however, is whether we could possibly prevent Flint from doing it, or feel as if we had any authority to tell him not to. He could still negotiate. Threaten Ashe that unless he gave the lot of us pardons, he _would_ burn the city to the ground, or something of the sort. But I can't see Flint ever stooping to accept such a filthy document from the man who is the reason he had to turn pirate in the first place, and frankly, neither would I. Yet we all know that Flint will not leave this unavenged. And if Miranda thinks as well that Charlestown should be burned, rather than trying to stop him. . ."

Sam trailed off, even as Killian and Emma could sense his morbid point: that one way or another, Charlestown and Lord Peter Ashe had a death mark on them, and they could either refrain from participation in the name of their own high-minded personal honor, or go with Flint and Miranda and be prepared to do whatever they had to. Lord Archibald had warned them not to go to Charlestown, but he had instead all but sealed it as their next destination, and they came seeking not peace, but a sword. Sam was further correct that Flint would ignore them if they tried to stop him – asking him to help call off Blackbeard and Vane in St. John's was one thing, but expecting him to meekly swallow something of this unspeakable magnitude was too much. And, terribly, Emma almost didn't care what happened to the city, after her own painful history with it. Lord Peter had made this monster. It seemed simply fitting that he should be consumed by it.

"There's still Robert Gold," Killian said, after a moment. "Flint and I were – well, I was – planning to tip off your old captain about our suspicions that he is in fact a traitor. That way, we could possibly get the Navy to turn on him or at least question his right to command them, break up whatever plans they had for dealing with the pirates, and buy us a little time. If so – "

"You meant to tell David Nolan?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "Aye, well, if there was anyone who would feel it was his duty to investigate fully, no matter the risk, it would be David. But do you really think you can stop Gold with just the _Windsor?"_

"Stop him? No. We could, however, potentially slow him down a bit, throw something in his way that even he didn't see coming. Nolan helped Flint and I rescue you, he'll hear us out if we can find him. Did you – on Antigua, when Gold had you prisoner, is there anything you can think of that might tell us what he actually _wants?"_

Sam snorted bitterly. "To cause as much chaos and misery as he pleases, so far as I can tell. Turned Eleanor Guthrie to his side in less than five minutes, so if she's now informing on Nassau to the Navy, we're in trouble. Doubtless my _other_ old captain, Benjamin fucking Hornigold, is expecting that he will be given the honor of commanding an English ship to the battle. As for Gold, though. . . all I can think of is that he had a strange black knife. Twisted, evil thing, I'd never seen its like. I didn't get any sort of good look at it, but it struck me as odd even at the time. Not that that means anything, though. Perhaps he's simply an aficionado of eccentric weaponry. Even an evil bastard needs hobbies."

Killian and Emma glanced at each other and frowned, as this likewise did not sound familiar to either of them. Then Geneva stirred in Sam's arms, mewling fretfully, and Emma didn't give a damn about anything, about ease or hardship, about choices, about rightness. "Please," she said, half in a whisper. "Let me hold my daughter."

Sam hesitated, then nodded, and passed her back. As before, she curled warm and bonelessly into Emma's chest, still all but part of her, dark lashes showing against her round cheek. Emma closed her eyes hard, pressing a kiss to the baby's downy-soft head, with a powerful, almighty ache in her fingers and her hands and her arms and her entire soul, to hold on, to hold on and never let her go. That this, somehow, could defy the very order of things, its inevitability, its march toward cessation. _Dust to dust._ As if she could make the sun slow, the stars hold soft, the world stop, and all of time stand still.

* * *

Liam and Regina departed that evening. They had taken the nanny-goat, the money from Emma and a significant extra chunk from Sam (which he said was a christening gift for his goddaughter), the rewritten and sealed pardon from Lord Archibald, and everything else they would need to sail on the _Jolly Roger_ to Paris, and try to build whatever life they could. Will had decided to go with them, to help look after the children and lend an extra hand, and they would have taken Abigail and Lord Archibald as well, but Flint refused to yield two such priceless hostages. Thus it was a subdued and solemn leavetaking, everyone trying to put a brave face on it while knowing that there was a very good chance they would never see each other again, and that once Liam and Regina left this world, they could hardly return for casual visits. They had to make the break clean, could not look back, could not risk calling any suspicion on them, and the great charge they had been entrusted with: Henry, dressed for traveling, chin up but lip quivering, and Geneva, asleep in Emma's arms as she carried her down the beach, Killian at one elbow and Sam at the other. Oh God, oh Christ, she did not know how to do this.

The Jones brothers looked at each other without a word, then stepped forward and embraced for a very long moment, struggling to let go for the last time. Emma knelt down before Henry and tried to think of something to say, something for him to remember her by, but couldn't. Finally, she whispered, "I love you," and kissed his forehead. She didn't want to tell him that she'd see him again, when it was a promise out of her power to keep. "Be. . . be good."

Henry bit his lip and nodded, apparently not sure what else to do. Sam and Liam clasped hands quickly, Emma and Will hugged hard, and even Killian and Regina managed a cordial parting. Then it was time, and Emma and Killian bent over Geneva, kissing her once and then again, barely managing to straighten up and hold her out, a tiny blanketed shape in the rich blue twilight, for Regina to take. Emma felt her knees going out, and clawed hold of Killian, who wasn't particularly steady either. Sam silently offered them an arm, and they both hung onto him, watching the small party retreat down the sand and into the boat, out to the waiting, anchored silhouette of the _Jolly._ Watched them go aboard, and the sails raised. Watched them start to move, dissolving into the soft deepening darkness of the falling night, and not look back.

They stood there long after the ship was out of sight, Emma and Killian too numb to move, until Sam finally stirred. "Come on," he said quietly. "Let's get you something."

Emma did not think that anything could ever fill the void inside her, but she took better hold of Killian and walked with the men up the beach to one of the fires, which had been so warm and inviting and celebratory last night, before Lord Archibald opened his mouth and the entire world had changed. All she knew now was that this had to be, this _had_ to be, worth it. They had to defeat Gold and Ashe and Jennings and Hornigold and the Navy and however many other enemies still remained, they had to fight as they never had before, they had to do whatever it took to win, and to survive. They had sent their future away, held in abeyance, the wager they had to make. The reminder of what the stakes were, and the price of them.

Flint glanced up as they seated themselves at his fire, which he had been staring into as if determined to learn how to physically breathe it. Emma braced herself for some abrasive comment, but he said nothing, thrusting a rum flask at them as if sensing that they probably needed it just as much, and they untwisted the cap and took long pulls. Sam took it when Killian passed it to him and had a drink as well, then handed it back to Flint, who finished it off and tossed it in the sand. Miranda was not there. It was not clear where she might be, or what precisely the state of things between them was. Emma did not think that Flint blamed Miranda for this whole wretched situation, not really, but she _had_ been the one pushing him the hardest to stop, to make terms, to settle down. Now that was spectacularly shot to pieces, and after holding off on actual marriage for so long out of respect for Thomas' memory, their reward for it was to find out exactly how a man they had trusted and befriended had destroyed all of them in the first place. It would be hard not to feel utterly cursed, together or apart.

"So," Flint said at last, in a guttural rasp, when he saw they might as well sit and share their misery. "Going to get your own ship back?"

It took Killian a few moments to surface from his reverie. "Aye, I suppose. Though I'm not entirely certain what I can give Blackbeard to make him want to undo the bargain that we – "

"Leave that to me." Flint's mouth twisted. "I know what to offer him."

"Oh? And that is?"

Flint gazed back at him with an expression that clearly said he was not going to tell him.

"So – what, we'll sail with you until we find him, then trust that you'll know exactly what to say to get him to hand the _Jolie_ back, without a peep of protest?"

Flint shrugged, digging out another bottle of rum and using his knife to cut open the wax seal. "Did you have a better plan?"

"No." Killian paused. "Then you're making for Charlestown?"

"Yes." Flint took a drink. "And if you were thinking of being a friend to me, I need Captain Hook, the vengeful terror of English Harbor and Kingston. Killian Jones and any empty moralizing he might feel inclined to do can stay the fuck away."

"Mate. Look." Killian leaned forward. "I know how you're feeling. Believe me, I do. The reason my life was destroyed, my enemies knew everything they needed to in order to stage that scene on Antigua where Jennings literally cut off my bloody hand and everything we had ever done or believed in was torn down in front of us, was because of the carpenter on my ship, August Booth. He wasn't a friend to me as Lord Peter was to you, but he was still a ranking officer and someone I had sailed with for many years, who sold me and Liam out to Gold and never turned a hair in doing it. If I had the chance to spit him and roast him over a fire, well, I can't say that I wouldn't likewise be extremely bloody tempted. But it's not going to help."

"I told you to spare me your moralizing." Flint crossed his boots, continuing to stare into the fire. "Or is that something else you can't – "

" _Look,"_ Killian said again, low and dangerously enough that even Flint's head jerked unwillingly up. "I just saved your arse from the mutiny, and don't tell me you don't know it. So you'll, what, sail to Charlestown breathing blood and fury and give them all an excellent chance of being hanged anyway? Not that long ago, you and me and Sam also sat on a beach at night, on Tortuga, planning to drift apart, to go our separate ways, to blow where the wind takes us. We can't, don't you see? We _can't._ There are no more chances of pardons for any of us, whether or not we wanted them, and pirates have to stand together. More than that, I know how hard it is to see what's in front of you, and not what has gone behind and before, but you have a family now. You do. You have your wife, you have Sam, you have me and Emma – you said you'd make a home with us, I think you're well aware that you've grown used to having us around, and you just pretend that you still hate us because you're a grumpy bastard who hates everyone. And I just handed my daughter to my brother and Regina and let them sail away, to most likely never see us again, because I'm going to stay here, _Emma_ is staying here, to fight. So if you think that this somehow doesn't matter to me as much as it does to you, _fuck_ that."

Everyone stared at Killian, as it had likely been a long time – if ever – since anyone had dared to speak to Flint in such a fashion. Even Silver cloaked his manipulations in a veneer of polished, glib courtesy, wheedling and flattering and using honey instead of vinegar, but Killian's patience was clearly out, raw and bloodied from the parting earlier, as Emma squeezed his hand. She half-expected Flint to finally go off with a bang, as it was Miranda who had lost her temper on the revelation of Ashe's treachery while Flint remained numb and silent, but he still appeared almost at a loss. Then he said again, voice a grate, "So?"

"So." Killian's cheeks were flushed in the firelight, eyes dark and wild, but his voice was more or less even. "Go to Charlestown, aye, but be cunning about it. Go in acting as if you don't know anything about Ashe whatsoever, and are simply happy to see your old friend again and return his daughter. Then when you have him alone, you do whatever you see fit to make him answer for his crimes. Turn the tables. He will offer you anything he can think of. Take it, or don't."

Flint considered Killian for a very long, very fraught moment, until the corner of his mouth curled up in a thin, mirthless smile. "Betray him in turn, you mean? That's. . . rather elegant."

"Aye. He turned on you when you did not see it coming, when you had no defense, and lost everything as a result. You can, with a bit of artistry, serve the exact same bitter medicine to him. Then whatever becomes of him after that, you will know yourself avenged."

Flint remained implacable, fingers tapping on his knee, as he took another long pull on the rum. "And what would the two of you – " he tilted his head at Killian and Sam – "be doing, while I was amusing myself in such fashion?"

"Once I get the _Jolie_ back, I thought Emma and I would return to Nassau," Killian said. "We need to know how it stands there, if Blackbeard and Vane have come back, if anyone has any news on Jennings' fate, or what devilry the Navy is preparing for us. On the way, though, we have to see if we can find David Nolan and warn him that Gold is a – "

"I'll do that," Sam said. "I'll track down the _Windsor_ and pass the word to him."

Killian and Emma looked at him in surprise and wonderment, as they were both well aware how difficult it must have been for Sam to agree to go anywhere near Antigua again, let alone to find the very ship on which he had served and where Hume had carried out his abuse. But it was likewise true that of any pirate who came bearing news of a governor's grievous treachery, David Nolan was the most inclined to listen to Sam, and they had to trust that their old friendship would be enough for David to take him seriously. He could not openly turn on an agent of the Crown without tarring himself with the same traitorous brush, but he could do something, and having at least one ally on the other side of the coin might prove invaluable, when the fighting started in earnest. The Navy reinforcements must have arrived from England by now. For Sam to sail alone into these dangerous waters was no small offer, with no surety of a second escape.

"Sam," Emma said quietly. "You don't have to – "

"Aye, I do." He looked back at her just as fiercely, dark eyes burning. "I'm your family too. I already tried to run away, and I've done well for myself in taking prizes, but I said that when the time came to fight the battle against Gold, I'd be there. It is, and it's now, and just as you would not leave us, I won't either. I'll be with you, with all of you. Until the end."

Emma reached out to take his hand with her free one, pulling the three of them together, as they thus regarded Flint with a single searching stare. He seemed to search for words, started and then stopped, and was just on the verge of trying again when Miranda appeared out of the darkness, with – most surprisingly – Abigail Ashe trailing behind her. It was impossible to say what they might have been talking about, but Miranda looked at Flint as if expecting him to wall her out again, waited, and then finally, tentatively sat down next to him. "James," she said quietly. "Forgive me."

Flint's eyes were rather oddly bright in the firelight, though he still made no sound. At last, however, he reached out and took her hand, his rough, ringed fingers closing around her smooth ones, as she let out a breath that seemed to be all the air in the world and let her head sink onto his shoulder. He turned to kiss her hair, and the fire crackled and spat, beautiful traceries of sparks against the soft black sky. As Emma sat across from them, Sam on one side and Killian on the other, for this last night of peace, this distant echo of their happiness from the far shore of such a long, dark sea, on whatever lay after, she simply, and at last, felt herself there, nowhere else, no _time_ else, and breathed, and lived, and was.

* * *

They left the next morning. Flint's crew had had two days to get fat and happy on all of Sam's spoils, and there was a remarkable lack of muttering and grumbling as Killian, Emma, Miranda, and Abigail boarded the _Walrus._ They would sail to Blackbeard's last known general vicinity, see if they could find him and the _Jolie,_ and once it was (hopefully) re-acquired, fill him in on the threat and see if he could be induced to blow a few Navy ships out of the water, which for Blackbeard ought to be no trouble at all. This, however, could not include the _Windsor,_ which he had stated his intentions to destroy at their first meeting, in repayment for his unpleasant servitude under Nolan's predecessor, Captain George King. Sam was to take the _Whydah_ toward Antigua, see if he could catch David up and tip him off, and Lord Archibald was traveling with him, as the word of the Governor of Jamaica would lend considerable weight to charges of Gold's treachery. Besides, Lord Archibald seemed to have decided that if his lot was now thrown in with pirates, he wanted to stay with the pirate he knew to be a fair, generous, and honorable man, for which of course he could not be faulted. Emma had tried one last time to convince Charlie to come with her, but he had made fast friendships among Sam's crew and was growing used to life aboard the _Whydah,_ so there he would stay.

As for her and Killian, after they got the _Jolie_ back, they would head home to Nassau and get the lay of the land, while Flint, Miranda, and Abigail continued to Charlestown and whatever reckoning awaited there. Flint seemed to have taken Killian's advice to be shrewd about it, but whatever else he might intend, he kept it extremely close to the vest. Most of his crew was unaware that anything had changed at all, though it was unclear if this included Silver. Still, as he had just had his leg hacked off and had been unable to get out of his hammock, even he might have his claws dulled for the time being. Emma thought it would be good for him.

She herself was not up to doing much, still recovering from both the physical toll of childbirth and the emotional gauntlet of giving Geneva up. Her body knew that it had had a baby, and could not understand why it was not there, why it had been so completely and unnaturally severed from it. Abigail, still seemingly determined to make herself indispensable, was helping her wash and dress, for which Emma was grateful; as good as Killian's intentions were, and as much as she counted on him being there, he was still not much help with only one hand. She knew he felt its loss keenly, especially now when she herself needed an extra one, and he was twice as useless. That night as they lay in their bunk, she said quietly, "You're doing all you can."

"Am I?" He shifted against her, looking at the low wooden ceiling above. Intimate relations were out of the question for another several weeks at least as she healed, but they still needed to be close to each other, to hold each other, to touch, to find what peace and ease they possibly could. "It doesn't bloody feel like it, love. Tell you true."

"You convinced Flint to play Charlestown carefully, and to reunite with Miranda, after you saved him from the mutiny and whipped the _Walrus_ back into shape. You convinced Sam to go find David Nolan and warn him about Gold, when you were the one to work all of that out in the first place. You're still the pirate captain who won that duel with Blackbeard, whether or not it feels like it, the commander of our fleet. And you. . . with Geneva. . ." Her throat felt thick. "It's not your fault that Peter Ashe betrayed Flint and Miranda ten years ago. It's not your fault that we couldn't get pardons and go away with her. I couldn't have done that without you."

"Aye, but you never should have had to." Killian's voice was soft, bitter, savage – but not at her, or even at any of their enemies, but at himself. "You never should have had barely a day with our daughter before giving her up, and still have to face what is before us. If this is the future we have, love, then so be it. But it's never one I wanted to give you."

"Killian." Emma turned toward him, propping her chin on his shoulder. "It's with you, all right? That's what truly matters to me. We're still here, together, alive. And we _will_ find Geneva and Henry again, some day. I do believe that."

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes tender and tired, as he reached out to stroke a lock of hair out of her face. "Aye, well, lass," he said at last. "If you think so, then so do I."

"Yes." Emma gripped hold of his arm. "Yes, I do. Killian, I – " She faltered on it, nearly stopped, but this time, would not let herself. Not after everything. "I love you."

He stared at her in surprise and shy delight, mouth open, with an expression of such pure shock that she almost had to giggle, painful as it was. The silence remained for a few moments longer, until at last, he broke into the softest, most radiant smile she had ever seen on anyone. "I," he said, stopped, and shook his head, then reached for her, pulling her close. "I love you too, Emma Swan. I do."

It took a few long days of sailing, as well as vigilant watch for any unfriendly vessels – they had thought they glimpsed a Navy rater in the distance at least once, and did not want to get close enough to make sure – but they reached the rich waters near Hispaniola and Puerto Rico that Blackbeard had announced his intentions to pillage, and where Killian had found him in the first place. It was easier than they expected to pull it off again. With the _Queen Anne's Revenge,_ with its forty cannons, and the _Jolie Rouge,_ with its sixty, Blackbeard was master of a hundred guns and two very strong pirate ships, and saw no need to hide from anyone, not when he could simply sail out and blast the ever-living bejesus out of them. This was nearly applied to the _Walrus,_ but they were recognized in the nick of time, and signaled to the _Revenge_ to approach for a meeting. Killian's face on seeing the _Jolie_ again – now battered, painted black, flying the skull and crossbones, and otherwise completely unrecognizable as the former HMS _Imperator,_ but still _his_ , his girl, whom he had likewise thought to never see again _–_ was nearly as bright and beaming as it had been at that moment in the cabin with Emma.

"You," Blackbeard said, when the captains had appeared on deck and drawn close enough for parley. "Back to beg for your ship, boy? You seemed quite sure you wouldn't be."

"I'm here to barter for my ship, yes. And you will address me as _Captain,_ not _boy,_ if you would prefer to keep this simple."

Blackbeard raised an eyebrow, apparently amused that Killian dared to threaten him, however subtly, to his face – but with the slightest flicker of respect, as he could not fail to remember that Killian had beaten him in the duel on Nassau and ordered him off the attack on Antigua. "Apologies, Captain," he said, with rather specious gallantry. "But I've put your ship to good use, and if you're taking her back for more mercy missions – "

"I won't be, no. There's a war to be had, against our common enemies, and I mean to help in fighting it." Killian tilted his chin back and met the older man's eyes coolly. "You can keep whatever plunder you've taken with her, I'm not interested in any cut of the treasure. Or – "

"There are a whole host of Navy ships in the Caribbean now," Flint interrupted. "Plenty of new targets. And last time, we stopped you from burning St. John's, ripping out the heart of Antigua, but that could be changed. Where is Vane, by the way? I don't see the _Ranger_ here."

"Charles does as Charles does." Blackbeard regarded them with a curious, calculating expression. "So – what? In exchange for the _Jolie_ returned, you'd grant me permission to burn Antigua, after you stopped me last time? As if I needed your leave?"

Flint shrugged. "Do you want to sit on your hands here? I doubt it. As I said, the Navy has arrived in force, and will be after the lot of us soon. Taking out St. John's would rather delay them, don't you think? Our friend Hook here saw to English Harbor last year, but that was only half the snake. The moment was not right for you on our last visit. Perhaps now it is."

"Is _that_ what you were planning?" Killian demanded in an undertone. "What you claimed you'd offer Blackbeard, to make him give the ship back? Sacking Antigua?"

Flint shrugged again. "Do you want it or not?"

Killian was quiet, clearly struggling with the idea of agreeing to let St. John's be burned after all, when he, Sam, and Flint himself had gone to such effort to stop Blackbeard and Vane from doing it the first time. It was true that there was no room for sentiment, that agreeing to spare the city from humanitarian kindness would just result in the Crown being able to more efficiently hunt them down and hang them. If it was now hosting the Navy's reinforcements, moreover, it had become a legitimate military target, not a slaughter of mostly unarmed civilians. Warning David Nolan about Gold was one way to disrupt the scale of the threat that faced them, but it would be beyond foolish to let it be the only one. Flint was right. Refusing would be idiotic. And if there was one thing Blackbeard _was_ good at, it was causing total red mayhem and terror.

"As you noted," Flint said, "you don't need our leave to _do_ anything. If you can sack Antigua, you'll have earned it. Certainly one way to ensure you are known as the legendary pirate captain who feared nothing and no one. All we ask is Hook's ship under his own command again."

Blackbeard considered this, then spat. "And if his men won't have him? They've chosen a new captain, you know. It won't be as simple as walking back aboard and picking up."

"New captain?" Killian turned to stare suspiciously at the _Jolie,_ searching the deck. "Who?"

"Me." A new voice spoke up as a familiar face stepped forth from the madding crowd, doffing his hat with a flourish. "Captain Jack Rackham, at your service."

" _You?"_ Killian and Flint said at once.

"There's no need to sound quite so astonished." Rackham pouted. "The ship found itself without a captain after your departure, Charles was – as my compatriot noted – being _Charles,_ and I decided it was high time to make my own decisions. I've wanted a crew of my own for some time, to prove my worth. And indeed, Anne and I have done quite well with the _Jolie._ We're willing to take you aboard, but I'm still captain here. I don't intend to step aside."

"Look, you smirking wart, that is _my_ ship, and I am – "

"Not any more, you're not." Rackham folded his arms, as Anne appeared from the crowd as well and moved to stand next to him. "You traded it away, fair and square, and I won the election for a replacement, fair and square. I've taken us a fine few prizes too, sailing with Captain Thatch. As I said, you can join my crew, but you _would_ be my crew."

Killian eyed him evilly, as both of them must have been recalling Rackham inveigling for a job when Hook and Emma first arrived on Nassau. The tables were decidedly turned now, which only one of them was in a position to appreciate, but after a moment, Killian surprised everyone by smiling. "Very well. You have indeed won your captaincy fairly, and it would be bad form to deprive you of it by trickery. But what good does it do you if you're out in the middle of bloody nowhere? It was Nassau you needed to win over, and you would certainly impress them by sailing in as master of such a powerful ship, with so many rich scores to your name. If Vane is there, he'll know you're not merely his bumbling ex-quartermaster any more, and I'm sure you have other intrigues to pursue. All you need to do is take us with you."

Rackham squinted at him, clearly trying to work out the catch in this otherwise signally tempting offer. "What business do you have on Nassau?"

"What business do any of us have on Nassau? It's our home, and with the Navy now swarming us like maggots on a wound, we would be well served to see that it was defended."

"And where's Flint going while we're doing this?"

"Flint advises you to keep your snout out of matters which don't concern you." The captain in question raised a cutting ginger eyebrow. "Hook has made you an offer. Aye or nay?"

Rackham bristled at this cavalier dismissal, but seemed to decide that while he might be new to this whole command lark, he did at least know that picking a fight with Flint was the quickest way to dump himself ignominiously out of it. "Very well," he said. "Hook and the lovely Miss Swan are, of course, welcome aboard."

As they were preparing to leave the _Walrus,_ Emma lingered behind to speak to Miranda – who, despite reconciling with Flint, had not yet seemed at all herself again. She had not said anything more about wanting Charlestown to burn after her first furious outburst, but she had also not advocated for sparing it or treating it gently. She had continued to behave politely with Abigail, as she was far too well-bred to do otherwise, and she had known Abigail as a small girl back in London; she clearly refused to heap Lord Peter's sins onto his innocent daughter's shoulders. But she seemed more exhausted and heartsick than Emma had ever seen her, the silver streaks in her hair more advanced than they had been that morning on the Maroons' island, brittle and worn and simply at a loss for how to carry on. She managed a smile for Emma, but her eyes remained drowned, a woman at the bottom of the well. "Safe journey back to Nassau, my dear," she said. "If you and Killian need lodgings, you are welcome to use my house."

"Miranda. . ." Emma struggled to find the right words to give her strength and solace, when Miranda had done it so often for her. There always came that strange and unsettling moment when you realized that your parents were not infallible, that they were weak and human and weary too, and she had grown so used to thinking of Miranda as her mother that there was no difference than if she was. She reached out, taking the other woman's cold hands. "There's. . . there's still hope. It won't be you and me sailing away to live with the children in Boston, but maybe that future isn't lost forever. Just. . . delayed for a little while. I still need you. We do."

Miranda looked at her for a long moment, then leaned forward and lightly kissed her forehead. "I am prouder of you than I could ever truly say. Whatever happens, know that."

Emma wasn't sure she trusted herself to speak, and nodded again, hugging Miranda hard, as Killian and Flint shook hands with that same weight of solemnity and sincerity, of finally allowing themselves to admit that they had come to rely a great deal on the other, and more than just as fellow captains, but as friends, as family. Flint paused, then cuffed Killian on the shoulder. "Don't let the weak-chinned wonder be a slippery git to you on your own ship, eh?"

"Aye." Killian's mouth quirked. "I'll miss you too."

Flint flinched, but didn't say anything, stepping back to stand beside Miranda, as Killian and Emma made their way to the _Jolie._ They landed on the deck, a strangeness beyond words coming up to overtake them, at returning here, to the place it had all begun – both as pirates, just the two of them, preparing for the ultimate confrontation and culmination. Killian looked around at his old ship without a word; he could not fail to be thinking of his brother, and how it completely disorienting must have been for Liam to return to the former _Imperator_ as a stranger, no longer its commander and captain, but merely another face among the crowd. Emma couldn't tell if he was in fact scheming to divest Rackham of his position, or if the need to pull together outweighed such petty grievances. This was it, then. This was it all.

The _Walrus,_ the _Jolie,_ and the _Revenge_ pulled apart, each bound for a different port –Charlestown, Nassau, Antigua – and each on a different purpose. Emma could not possibly imagine how any of these would end, with the stakes so high and so many life-or-death throws of the dice already made. And yet. No matter what happened, she could not fail to be glad that she was here with Killian. That she had stayed. _Whither thou goest, I will go._

It was a journey of close to a week northwest to Nassau, though it was late enough in the spring by now that the weather was fair and the trades were blowing hard, which gave them extra speed. They hadn't been there since January, and it was impossible to say what might await them, if a new captain had risen or if Vane had returned to lord it over the island, what with his rivals having been unwisely absent for so long. He still had plenty of Spanish gold at his disposal, after all, and plenty of ways to buy friends and alliances. With Eleanor Guthrie in the hands of the Navy, and – according to Sam – having changed her allegiance to them, it was furthermore impossible to say how the place might be run or the profits distributed, if they were at all. Vane had many talents, to be sure, but business (and sharing) were not among them.

And yet, when they drew in sight of New Providence five days hence, these were quite the smallest of their concerns. As Emma peered through the spyglass, she felt her heart skip a beat, remembering Merlin's ominous warning to her on the Maroons' island. _It has already begun, and Nassau will fall. I have seen it. A great fleet of white sails before the harbor, and a wall of burning ships. The man with the scar on his face comes with milk and honey in his mouth, and a poisonous sting in his tail. Your friends will die. Not on Antigua, perhaps, but they will. There is no winning this battle. It is beyond anyone's strength._

There was, indeed, a great fleet of white sails before the harbor, a half-dozen ships at least. The Union Jack capered above them, snapping in the breeze, and the sunlight glinted on guns and muskets, tiny blue-jacketed figures striding the decks. This, then, was where all the might of the Royal Navy had descended, to come to grips with the scourge of piracy at last. It was now. They were here.

The siege of Nassau had begun.


	36. XXXVI

**-XXXVI-**

The anchorage on the southeast side of New Providence Island was shallow, rugged, and rocky, choked with shifting sandbars and gnarled, slimy mangrove roots, a narrow tidal channel running twelve or fifteen feet deep – enough to allow passage to the small smugglers' pirogues and ketches who normally did business here, but nowhere near sufficient for a full-size man o'war. Yet with Nassau Harbor blockaded, they were hardly at leisure to select a convenient spot as they pleased. This was the furthest position on the island that they could get away from that wall of Navy ships, and they were currently embroiled in a fierce disagreement about what on bloody earth to do next.

"No," Jack Rackham said, not for the first time. "Even if we could land properly, trying to sneak into the city itself is suicide. I imagine the place is crawling with redcoats, and all they have to do would be to bag the lot of us, stretch our necks, and have their war won in a stroke. We have to retreat, find out where Charles is, or try to reconnect with Blackbeard. So I have made very clear, and as captain of this vessel – "

"Yes, as _captain,_ " Killian repeated, far from supportively. "Mate, we came here precisely to find out what was going on in Nassau, and it's hardly going to do anyone a damn bit of good if we turn tail and scatter at the first sight of an English arse. I don't bloody know about you, but I don't intend to let them get away with this. What did you think, that we'd arrive here and stroll in for tea and biscuits? If the pusillanimous Mr. Rackham finds himself short of stomach for leading the enterprise, I'll gladly volunteer in his place."

Rackham glared at him, though it was not clear if this was due to the slight on his gall and kidney or because "pusillanimous" was a word he wished he had thought of using first. Two cooks in the kitchen were clearly brewing a salty stew indeed. Yet when he failed to muster an immediate response, likely a first, Killian went on, "Besides, didn't you return here exactly in order to prove that you were finally a force to be reckoned with? The _Jolie_ has sixty guns. Obviously I didn't get a good look at whatever the Navy has in the harbor, but I imagine they were mostly frigates, fast but lightly armed, and perhaps a fifth-rater or two like the _Scarborough,_ thirty guns at the upper end. If we maneuvered for a nighttime ambush, we might be able to break the siege, at least temporarily. It would take courage, though. Ambition. Not the sort of thing you can carry out hiding beneath a rock."

Rackham opened his mouth heatedly, then stopped as Anne shot him a significant look. For a woman of such few words, she had certainly mastered the knack of smartly shutting up her verbose significant other when needed, and it was plain in her expression that she likewise did not favor the thought of scampering away again so swiftly after they had arrived. "Hook's right, you know," she said, with a sidelong glance at Killian that made it plain that this avowal of support should not be taken to mean that she liked or trusted him now, as she most certainly did not. "Can't scurry off wifout knowing what they've taken, and how. I'll go to scout it out, if you're so set on stayin' behind."

"I – no, you absolutely will not go by yourself." Rackham blew out a breath, looking frustrated. "And I also doubt that our friend Messr. Hook will be content to sit and twiddle his thumb, nor do I intend to leave him with free rein on my ship. So, you'll be accompanying us?"

"It's my ship."

"It's not your ship anymore."

"It's _my ship,_ and you will – "

"Enough!" Emma said sharply, the first time she had spoken, and Rackham, Anne, and Killian all swiveled around. "We don't have time to bicker about who the _Jolie_ most properly belongs to. The war is _here,_ the war is _now_ , and we are the only ones even close to being able to fight it. Vane could be here, or God knows where. Blackbeard's in Antigua. Sam is searching for David Nolan. Flint and Miranda are in Charlestown. If Nassau falls before any of them get back to help us, it won't matter. It will be _over._ Only a matter of counting out how many nooses they need to twist. I don't know about you, but after all this, I'm not dying like that."

They all stared at her. Killian could sense the rawness of her emotion, brimming too close to the surface, the absence of Geneva a dull, constant wound that would never heal. Troubled and chastened, he put his hand on her arm, and Emma covered it briefly with her own, squeezed, and let go. "Well," she said, still more coolly. "I take it we're going ashore."

This, therefore, was exactly what they did. They launched the ship's boat with the four of them aboard, caught the tide-race, and barely needed to row before they bumped up on the briny sand. Anne gave Emma an especial hand over; while Emma had had some time to recover from the tribulation of childbirth on the voyage north, she was still not entirely back to normal, and Anne clearly did not trust either Rackham or Killian to take proper consideration of a new mother's limitations. All of them had slung themselves with cutlasses and pistols, as it would be the height of lunacy to stroll into this unarmed (indeed, it could be dangerous to walk around Nassau unarmed during a normal day, much less during a Navy occupation) and it was going to be a long, hot, dark slog across the island to reach the city on the other side. The shadows were starting to stretch out, the sun a glowing golden ingot low in the west, and the thick tropical stickiness was already making fingers of sweat roll down Killian's back. He had shed his long leather jacket, it not being the most practical attire for a tramp through the jungle, and the breeze plucked feebly at the damp, sheer fabric of his shirt, the straps of the brace for his hook visible through it. "Very well," he said, when they had more or less gathered themselves. "Let's go."

With that, even though he was well aware that all three of his companions knew this place far better than he did, Killian turned and trudged up the beach, ducking into the heavy, twisted thickets beyond. There was not much talk, even from Chatterbox Jack, as they needed their breath for climbing. The exertion burned in Killian's legs after spending so much of the preceding months at sea, but he said nothing, concentrating on making sure that Emma was doing all right. She was, though he could see her wincing, and he made an excuse to stop after an hour or so to collect themselves. From here, they had reached enough high ground to see the _Jolie_ small in the bay below, but it was still another four or five hours, at best, to cross the meridian of the island and get their first look at Nassau. The early-summer evening was dark and warm and studded with stars, and Killian thought of his brother and Regina, winging away across the sea, Geneva and Henry in their keeping. He did not pray, had lost the habit early when they were never answered, but he found himself mouthing the words nonetheless. _Just this one, God. Just this one bloody thing, that's all I ask. Don't you damned well owe me_ something?

The Almighty, as usual, was silent, and Killian wiped his forehead. Once everyone had had a drink from the canteen and stoutly proclaimed that they were ready to keep walking all night if need be, they set off again, charting a cautious course away from the plantations that sprawled in the interior, a few dedicated remaining colonists who did not think that the fall of the island into pirate hands should get in the way either of making a profit or keeping their slaves in chattel bondage. A thorn of fury pricked at Killian, thinking of the raid on the market on Jamaica, where he had shot the redcoat to save Lancelot's life. _No time,_ he reminded himself. _Not enough strength with only four of us, besides. Leave it, Jones. Later._

It grew very late. The only sound apart from their hard breathing was the croaking and rustling of the jungle at night, creeping and crying, shadows slithering or skittering among the heavy undergrowth. Once or twice they glimpsed distant lights, eerie as will-o-the-wisps, and steered well clear. Rackham and Killian foraged ahead, determined not to let the other get too far in the lead, while Anne hung back to keep an eye on Emma. Killian supposed that strictly speaking, he _had_ traded away the _Jolie_ to Blackbeard fair and square, had no automatic right to think that he could just stroll back aboard and carry on where he had left off, and if Rackham had come out on top of the ballot for a replacement, well, bloody good for him. Yet be that as it may, Killian was still finding it difficult to be rational about it, when he knew the ship better, loved her more, served on her longer, and did not regard her as merely a stepping stone to get one over on the cutthroat competition of Nassau, as Jack apparently did. _Though if we're all about to be hanged by the British, what good is it?_

At last, as the moon was starting to get low in the sky, they reached a rocky outcrop where the jungle thinned, stepped out, and beheld in full and formidable sum, for the first time, the scale of the siege of Nassau, Lord Robert Gold's slow-brewing, long-burning repayment for all the insults and embarrassments the pirates had inflicted on him and the power of the Crown alike over the last year. It was worse than he had thought. Half a dozen heavy frigates, fifth or even fourth-raters to judge from the rough count Killian was able to make of their gunports in darkness and distance, formed the first line of defense, walling off the harbor from end to end – anyone trying to get out would have to sail a suicidal gauntlet between them like a duck in a shooting gallery, and then they would hit the further half-dozen lighter frigates, which carried fewer cannon but were fast enough to overtake almost anything the pirates had afloat. The Union Jack flapped proudly from every stern, and even worse, it flew above the parapets of the fort. There could be no doubt that Benjamin Hornigold had hastened to provide useful intelligence of the place he had held for so long, so as to advise them how best to capture it. For a sickening moment, in fact, Killian wondered if Rackham was right, and there was any point in going down there at all. With every one of its powerful protectors and potential defenders – Flint, Vane, Blackbeard, Hook, Bellamy, and the rest – scattered on their own errands and intrigues, the British forces must have found it risibly easy to take the so-called feared stronghold of the vicious outlaws. Sailed in with barely a shot fired, marched on in, and that was that.

"Well," Rackham said, echoing Killian's thoughts. "Fuck. Still have a brilliant plan about how we're going to be Nassau's heroes and liberators, do you?"

"Wait." Killian pointed to one of the ships closer into shore – not one of the Navy's, under heavy guard, one of the frigates positioned to fire solely at it if it made any attempt to up anchor and escape. "Bloody hell. Isn't that the _Ranger?"_

Rackham's jaw dropped. "Christ. It is. So that means – Charles _is_ here? Somewhere? Well, there's still the matter of all that Spanish gold that he and Jennings helped themselves to. He cached it before we set out to join you for the party on Antigua. He won't go too far from it, and neither can he transport it off Nassau under the eyes of half the fucking British Army. So what is he doing? Hanging about in taverns to have a friendly chinwag with the occupiers? Can't see Charles doing that, if you ask me. Really, not at all."

"Or 'e could be in irons already." Anne's voice came from the other side as she crawled up on the rock, scowling down at the besieged port. "Jack, don't tell me you're about to try something foolish, just to make a point to him."

"Weren't you just urging me to exactly that, earlier?"

"Urgin' you to make a stand. Not get captured by the fuckin' Navy, trying to measure cocks with Charles." Anne glanced at him sidelong through her curtain of chestnut hair. Softer, she said, "He's only one man. You know that."

"Yes," Killian interrupted, "and he's the only other pirate captain presently on Nassau, chained or otherwise. Coordinate with him, get him back to the _Ranger,_ bring the _Jolie_ around from the windward side – catch them at the right moment, and as I said, we might be able to break the lines. At least buy us enough time to get word to the others, then – "

And at that, he stopped. The truth was hideously apparent that even if they did manage to momentarily disrupt or bombard the Navy blockade, it was only a vanishingly small drop in a devouringly bottomless bucket, the opening salvo to a war they were heinously ill-equipped to fight. Even if Flint, Sam, and Blackbeard should sail up in their respective ships tomorrow morning and be ready to blast bleeding Jesus out of the bastards on the spot, that was still only five pirate vessels against a dozen Navy frigates, a full redcoat garrison, whatever other devilries Gold was certain to have cooked up, whoever might be in command of the British forces on the island, and the small fact that while it might be very nice to fondly imagine that Jennings was dead after Miranda had clobbered him with an oar, it was, in Killian's opinion, exceedingly unlikely. He was likely still out there, more vengeful and dangerous than ever. _If you step into a pit of snakes, does it really matter which one bites you first?_

Nonetheless, there was nothing to be done for it. One way or another, they had to go down there, and he glanced at Emma. "Should we leave you here to rest a bit, love?"

"No, I'm not letting you go without me." Emma's face was chalky, and she had to catch her breath as she spoke, but she pushed herself valiantly to her feet. "If something did go wrong. . ."

"I'd rather have you safe away, then." Killian frowned at her. "Are you _sure?"_

"Yes," Emma said firmly. "It'll be sunrise before much longer, we have to take advantage of the darkness while we have it. Come on."

The four of them took deep breaths, checked swords were loosened in scabbards and the buckles of bandoliers, the loading and priming of pistols – they did not _want_ to go down there and land directly in the middle of a brawl, but nor of course could the possibility be ruled out – and began to pick a path down the hillside, boots skidding in the sand. There were torches burning on the outskirts of the city, but no visible guards – yet, at least, and they managed to reach the palisade and sneak through without the alarm being raised. The streets looked almost peaceful – deceptively so, the uneasy and ill-fitting quiet imposed by military occupation, a strange and jarring change from the previously loud and lawless pirate capital. Shutters were closed, doors barred, lanterns burned low or guttered out, casting a surreal pall on the place, more silent and eerie than any of them had ever seen it. Nor was there any apparent sign of a recent struggle or resistance. If the residents of Nassau objected to abruptly and stringently being forced back under the yoke of His Majesty's rule and recognizance, it was difficult to tell.

"Hearts of lions, these ones," Anne muttered, evidently picking up on the same thing. "You think Hornigold's about? Be a pity not to shoot the fat fuck, while we're here."

Killian rather agreed with her sentiments, even as the logical part of his brain reminded him that obnoxious and traitorous as he might be, Benjamin Hornigold was still the least dangerous of their current extensive roster of enemies. _Though plenty bloody enough, if he puts his mind to it._ Brazenly selling them out to Hume and the _Scarborough,_ just for the sake of his old grudge against Sam, was more than proof of that. If Gold had promised Hornigold some sort of rule of a pacified Nassau – lying through his teeth, no doubt, but trust Hornigold not to notice – giving him the lordship of the place as he was still so convinced he deserved, the sneaking weasel would have told him anything.

At that moment Rackham, who was in front, threw out an arm to stop the other three. Someone was moving in the shadows just ahead – who, when it stepped out with a pistol pointed at them, as all of the foursome grabbed for their own, proved to be someone Jack and Anne clearly knew, one of their old shipmates from the _Ranger,_ another sailor on Vane' s crew. They stared at each other for a long moment, blinking, until Jack said, "Ned? Ned England?"

"Jack Rackham?" The other man lowered his pistol. "The bloody hell are you doing here? Charles said you'd left."

"Well, I've come back." Rackham was nonplussed at having to point out the obvious. "And evidently to a bit of what one would deem a pinch. What are you doing, out skulking behind the Navy's back at night? Is Charles nearby? We really would like to speak with him, as a matter of considerable urgency."

The man – Ned England, Jack had called him, which sounded vaguely familiar to Killian – surveyed them warily, cast a glance up at the nearest window, and then seemed to come smartly to a decision. Thrusting his pistol back through his belt, he jerked his head at them, leading them through a narrow, dim maze of side alleys and out toward the thickets on the far side of town. None of them thought it wise to talk while this was being carried out, as the eastern horizon was steadily turning brighter and stirrings of movement could be spotted on the Navy ships. Once they finally reached some measure of cover, their escort straightened up and turned around. "Edward England at your service and yours, ma'am," he said, doffing his hat politely to Emma and Anne. "Charles Vane's new quartermaster, now our friend Jack's run off for greener pastures."

Rackham looked as if he was not entirely sure how green those actually were, come to think of it, but forbore to say so. "Yes, well, Ned, my felicitations on your promotion. So Charles is still at liberty? Not a prisoner?"

"Not yet. Strictly speaking, at least – though I don't doubt that would change in a hurry, if we tried to get back to the _Ranger."_ England glanced at the distant silhouette of the brig, under its heavy guard. "Nor do we consider it wise to show our faces in town. You bring enough men for us to make a real go of it?"

"Possibly," Rackham said, with half a glance at Killian. "What on earth is going on? Don't tell me that Charles is the only one fighting the British."

"Might as well be," England said darkly. "Their new ponce of a governor – Woodes Rogers, he's called – sailed up cool as you please with that armada you see, announced that he had a commission from Lord Robert Gold and His Majesty King George with sweeping powers to restore order to the Caribbean, and intended to put them into practice immediately. Has something called the Act of Grace. Apparently, every man who surrenders, admits to piracy, and swears never to engage in it again can take the king's pardon and trot off to make an honest life for himself elsewhere. Unfortunately, to say the least, Rogers has had a good bloody uptake."

Killian and Emma exchanged a stunned look. They had thought the acquisition of a pardon to be completely out of reach after the revelation of Peter Ashe's betrayal – if it was suddenly, tantalizingly, desperately on the table again, the world changed contours once more, almost terrifyingly. However, something else about that had caught Killian with a jolt of surprise. "Rogers – Woodes Rogers, the same as wrote _A Cruising Voyage Round the World?_ " As had occurred to him when he thought of sailing to the Pacific via Cape Horn, he knew Rogers, even if not well, from his time in the Navy, when they had both attended the same sort of dinners and general matters of interest for the Bristol shipping business circles. The man had seemed pleasant and mannerly enough, though with a quiet steel that warned not to be easily crossed. Not that he would be inclined to look favorably on the Navy's most infamous recent deserter, but if Killian could at least talk to him. . . if Rogers was offering pardons for pirates, surely information about Robert Gold's suspected subversive activities would be worth something.

"Aye," said England, frowning. "You know the man?"

"We've an acquaintance, yes. From – long ago." Killian's mind continued to whir. "So by the sound of things, he's managed to sap Nassau's strength before he would even have to go to the bother of openly fighting it. Weed out any man of feeble conviction, who doesn't really _want_ to hang for treason, and sees more value in saving his own neck than fighting for a doomed cause."

"Aye," England said again. "That's why he's left myself and Charles at liberty, I think. We're supposed to talk any diehards round to sense. Which you will realize, no doubt, is the fucking last thing either of us intend to do."

Anne looked at him sharply. "So you are fighting, then?"

"We're not lying down and rolling over like lapdogs, that's for fucking certain." A voice spoke from behind them, in the shadows of the trees, and they all jumped and whirled around to behold Charles Vane in the flesh, watching them with an expression of sour amusement. "And I could have shot the lot of you while you were standing there flapping your jaws, you never even heard me coming. The fuck are you doing back here, Jack?"

"Ah. Charles. There you are." Rackham fidgeted like a schoolboy set up to recite a particularly difficult bit of Shakespeare in front of a crotchety and demanding headmaster. "It, well. It's a very long story."

Vane cocked one eyebrow, as if to remark that very long stories were customarily Jack Rackham's favorite thing in the world.

"Yes, well. Suffice it to say, I was elected captain of the _Jolie Rouge_ after you and Thatch parted ways, and in that capacity, along with my associates, have returned to ascertain the situation on Nassau and the potentialities for its – "

Vane guffawed aloud. "What? They elected _you_ captain? Did every other candidate have a raging case of the shits on the night the vote was taken?"

"Thank you, Charles, that is a ringing endorsement. I should have it engraved on a woodcut. However." Rackham drew himself up. "Be that as it may, I'm still back here – and forgive me if their ships are just very tiny and I can't see them among that wall of Navy frigates penning you in, but I appear to be the only other pirate captain present and willing to assist you. Besides. Anne and I both know where the gold is hidden, don't we?"

At that, both Vane and Killian looked at him sharply. The precise location of that record-breaking haul that Vane and Jennings had plundered from the Spaniards was, of course, a secret of paramount importance, and as Rackham had mentioned earlier, Vane had stashed it somewhere on the island, well away from the fort, which his short-lived business partner Hornigold had wasted no time in handing over to the British. Vane wouldn't leave Nassau for long without it, but as Rackham had also pointed out, he couldn't get it to the _Ranger,_ held prisoner in the harbor with Navy warships to every side. At that, the glimmer of a mad plan began to occur to Killian, and when he turned to Rackham, he could tell that the other bastard –sorry, captain – was having the same thought. Actually pulling it off, however, would require the kind of luck that even the Devil Himself would find improbable. But if they _could –_

"Charles," Rackham said. "If there was a way to get your gold off the island, and conceal it in a new location of comparable security, would you in return consider doing a favor for us?"

"Us?" Vane glanced pointedly between the four of them. "Bosom friends now, are you? Those two, Hook and Swan – they're Flint's through and through, even if they might pretend otherwise. Where the fuck is he, anyway?"

Killian and Emma exchanged looks. It was finally the former who answered. "He went to Charlestown, along with Mrs. Barlow. The governor there, Lord Peter Ashe, was an old friend of theirs. But according to Lord Archibald Hamilton, who likewise recently just escaped from the Crown's so-called justice with his skin, he was the one who betrayed them in London, got them outlawed and exiled. Flint is. . . planning to confront him."

"He what?" That took Vane genuinely by surprise. "Charlestown? He's actually bloody expecting to sail in there as the most wanted pirate in the New World, accuse the governor of treason to his face, and sail away again, especially when – as you can _fucking_ see – Nassau is already crawling with redcoats? And take his woman with him, why?"

"They were married a few weeks ago," Killian said. "And Miranda insisted on it. It was a betrayal of her as much as him."

Vane snorted. It was unclear whether he thought this demonstration of marital devotion was admirable or foolish (likely the latter), but either way, he did not look quite as pleased to hear that his greatest and longest-term rival was on the verge of possible utter downfall as might be expected. "Well," he said. "Keeps up Flint's track record of always making the wrong fucking decision, at any rate. But if they hang him – "

"Yes," Rackham completed. "Believe me, Charles, we all know how you two feel about each other. But if so, they can sign the rest of those pardons tonight and hand them out tomorrow, start measuring the governor's house for new curtains, and use our skulls for paperweights – or gild them and use them for drinking cups, I hear that's also a fashion. The war will be over. The republic will be over. Our odds are stiff enough as it is. This would make them downright impossible."

Vane was momentarily at a loss, eyes flicking back and forth like a cornered panther. Killian could see on his face the memory that only a former slave could have: the sensation of how it felt to wear chains, metaphorical or real, and to lose all hope of ever shedding them, of drawing a free breath again. Such a weight was not, if ever, easily forgotten, and Vane unconsciously rubbed his wrists, as if to chase away the shadow of a fetter. Then he said abruptly to Killian, "Fat fucking lot of good it did you and Flint to stop me and Thatch sacking Antigua, didn't it? Perhaps if you'd let us, this wouldn't be happening now, would it?"

"It would be," Killian said coolly. "None of those ships were there when we were. You wouldn't have managed to wreck a single one of them, or change the outcome of this invasion. Thatch has gone back to remedy that anyway, so it doubly makes no difference. If you want to fight against the real enemy – and mate, I know you do – help us. You can't want to sit squatting in the woods while the British occupy our home, hoping they'll get bored and go away. Here is the offer. You, Jack, Anne, Mr. England, and any other men you trust go to the gold's hiding place, move it to the back side of the island, where the _Jolie Rouge_ is anchored, and put it on board. The _Jolie_ is the strongest command in the entire Caribbean – trust me, nobody's going to get at it there. In return, we'll help you contrive a way to jailbreak the _Ranger_ and slip the blockade. And then – "

"You really think I'm a complete fucking idiot, don't you?" Vane looked incredulous. "Put my gold aboard your ship, and then what? Ask me to make for Charlestown, to save Captain fucking Flint's arse from the mess he got himself into? That's what you had in mind, wasn't it? Have _me_ pay _you_ to rescue _my_ biggest rival, so you can sail away with my whole take while my back is turned in some bloody pointless diversion in the Carolinas? Fuck off."

"I wasn't going to ask you to bail out Flint, in fact. Not if you couldn't strain yourself to it. But you agreed to help us once before, to get Jennings out of here. I think you'll also agree that Robert Gold and half the bloody Royal Navy are a far greater threat to our way of life than he is. And you know as well as I do what we would be – or rather, not – without Flint. The _Ranger_ is much faster than the _Jolie,_ which has to stay here to keep the gold safe and offshore anyway, and we need Flint back here as soon as we can get him. Come on, mate. You have to see that the time for fighting between ourselves is over. The true and ultimate enemy is literally on our bloody doorstep, and the pardons have already stolen half the men who might have fought for us. I'll die before I go back into bondage. I have a feeling you're exactly the same."

Vane continued to regard him with those piercingly blue eyes, unblinking in the light of the breaking dawn. The very world seemed to hang on his answer, either still possible or altogether past repair. Then at last, he inclined his head half an inch, spat in his palm as Killian did the same, and they shook hands, briefly and brusquely. "Fine," Vane said. "And what are we going to do to keep the governor distracted while all this is going on? Exactly?"

"Oh." Killian smiled grimly. "Just leave that to me."

* * *

For the entirety of the walk into Nassau a few hours later, after they had snatched a brief few winks of sleep, changed into respectable clothing taken from a trunk Vane had stolen, combed their hair, washed their faces, and otherwise done their best to make themselves look like honest gentlefolk, Emma was afire with anxiety. Even if this was a necessary risk to keep Woodes Rogers from noticing anything unusual going on, even if they could conceivably still obtain actual pardons from this, and everything else that dangled from a perilously thin thread, it felt nauseatingly dangerous. Or perhaps that was just nausea; the short sleep had not nearly been enough to make her feel better after the effort of the night, and she held Killian's arm so tightly that she thought she must be hurting him, clutching her borrowed (well, "borrowed") parasol with the other. He insisted that he knew Rogers, could at least reason with the man, but Emma was far from sure. All she could think about was Flint and Miranda, walking willingly toward a governor whom they already knew had betrayed them, had been an old friend once upon a time but turned on them when it was opportune, and had a badly foreboding feeling that she and Killian might be repeating the exact same mistake. Rogers might receive them for an audience, yes. Then all he had to do was slam shut the door and call for his soldiers, if it pleased him to keep them captive or worse, and there was precisely damn-all they could do about it.

They reached the city square without anyone raising the hue and cry about a pair of notorious pirates in their midst, and strolled past the redcoats on guard as casually as they could. There was a line of men stretched out the door of the stately house that had once been Eleanor Guthrie's headquarters, clearly waiting to pick up their pardon and be assured that the Crown had no further grief with them, and Killian and Emma regarded them with thoroughly mixed feelings. On the one hand, the temptation to join the queue, to make themselves believe that it would be as simple as getting a piece of paper right here, right now, and then they could sail off and rejoin Liam, Regina, Will, Henry, and Geneva, was almost overwhelming. On the other hand, with the rest of their family – Flint, Miranda, Sam, and the others – equally sworn that they wanted no part or parcel whatsoever of anything that passed for English absolution, it would once more be sneaking out the back door before the war was done, abandoning them to a cruel and bloody fate, which neither Killian nor Emma could countenance. Besides, Gold had almost undoubtedly told Rogers that there were a certain few to whom the offer of clemency would not apply. The crime of common piracy was one thing, but gross and personal high treason was quite another.

With a shaky breath and a long look at each other, Killian and Emma tightened their grip and ventured forth. Walking right in and demanding to see the governor was not the most artistic stratagem ever devised, perhaps, but they were not about to waste time thinking up a more elaborate one, and it at least had the value of novelty. As well, Killian's insistence that he had crucial information that it would greatly behoove them to know provided a bit of an extra spur. Thus, after the obligatory bureaucratic runaround, they were escorted to an upstairs office and told to wait, that Governor Rogers would be with them shortly.

Emma took the opportunity to sit down, fanning herself, as Killian paced back and forth, too nervous to stay still, digging a finger beneath his cravat. There was a pitcher of water on the table, and he moved to pour a goblet for her. "Love, you should have stayed at Vane's camp. All this when you're not recovered or healed – if you take illness or infection from this, I'll – "

"We've been through this, Killian. I'll be fine." She hadn't been able to stand having her corset laced too tightly, and she was still prone to find blood spotting her underthings, but she was confident – well, fairly – that she could push through. "If Miranda wasn't letting Flint go alone, of course I wasn't letting you go alone either. But if Rogers is who I think – "

At that moment, they were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, a quiet word exchanged in the hall, and the entrance of a handsome, sandy-haired man with cool, slaty eyes and a fine dove-grey coat, which was slung with a black leather baldric and belt. Most noticeably, however, he had a long, fishhook-shaped scar on his left cheek, curling around and under the jaw, and Merlin's warning was recalled forcefully to mind. _The man with the scar on his face comes with milk and honey in his mouth, and a poisonous sting in his tail._ The pardons certainly qualified as milk and honey, creating at least the veneer of mercy and leniency – so the poisonous sting was liable to be just as effective. He regarded them with polite curiosity but no apparent recognition, at least for a moment. Then his gaze flared with shock. "Lieutenant _Jones?_ It can't be."

"Aye. Well, once." Killian smiled stiffly. "Governor Woodes Rogers, is it now?"

"Of His Majesty's provisional government in the Bahamas, yes." Rogers glanced to Emma. "Am I to congratulate you on a marriage, then?"

"She – I, we're – we have a daughter, yes. Recently."

"Then indeed, congratulations." Rogers went to the sideboard, removed a decanter of claret, and poured two cups, one of which he passed to Killian. "And your brother? How is he?"

Killian hesitated. Rogers surely must have heard of the Jones brothers' spectacular fall from grace, of who – or rather, what – Killian himself had become, the name he was now known by. But he appeared content to let Killian be the one to broach the topic first, to see just how much he was willing to confess to. "Liam's. . . fine."

"A difficult feat to manage, in these days." Rogers raised an eyebrow. "He must be far from Nassau, if that is the case. Still in command of the _Imperator?_ With the exigencies of the struggle against the pirate threat being what they are, one would expect a loyal captain such as Liam Jones to bring his vessel to participate in the effort, with all due speed. Has he been given a different order? Or the _Imperator,_ perhaps, no longer sails under English colors?"

"I haven't spoken to Liam in a while. I wouldn't know."

"Of course." Rogers sipped his claret. "Well. I was told that you had certain information that it would assist our cause to hear. What is it, perchance?"

Killian hesitated again, as this was the gamble on which everything rested: to see if they could prize apart the foundations of Robert Gold's power, sow confusion and doubt among the British forces as to whose command they were truly following, get them to turn on their own and no longer be able to present a united front against the pirates. As briefly and neutrally as possible, he explained their suspicion that Gold was an agent of an unknown cause, whether in his own right or another's, and had expended considerable time and effort in craftily prejudicing the interests of the Crown in the Caribbean, not least in his plot to destroy the aforesaid _Imperator_ and cast a pair of good men and reliable officers down from their decade of loyal service. If this was the case, surely, Rogers and his men here on Nassau should think very hard about taking orders from Gold, or placing reliance on his motives or decisions.

Rogers listened implacably, displaying neither belief nor disbelief, until Killian was through. Then he said only, "Indeed."

"It's true," Emma blurted out. "The papers I found – "

"Yes, aboard the ship which you so happened to be visiting? Is that how you came to be there, madam?" Rogers looked at her mildly. "Am I to understand your presence on the _Imperator,_ at the same time Captain and Lieutenant Jones had been commissioned to hunt down a notorious pirate – a notorious _female_ pirate – to be nothing more than a mere byproduct of unlucky circumstance?"

Emma opened and shut her mouth. This one dressed and spoke and behaved as a gentleman, always restrained and courteous to look at, but they might damn well be getting just the tip of that promised poisonous sting. "Yes," she said, as stoutly as she could. "Unlucky circumstance."

"We'll see about that." Rogers turned, strode across the floor, and opened the door. To someone waiting outside, he said, "Come in, please."

A pause – and then Emma, who hadn't known exactly what she was expecting, but not this – was caught completely off guard as none other than Eleanor Guthrie, dressed as a proper English lady in a flowered damask gown and dainty slippers, blonde curls tumbling down her back, stepped inside. She and Emma, of course, had known each other for years, from the days when Emma had been the captain on Nassau that Eleanor was most inclined to trust to support her interests. Sam had told them already that Eleanor had changed sides in Antigua, when Gold threatened her that it might be death if she didn't. Yet if she had taken the step from passive to active betrayal, was now colluding with the English to provide information on her entire previous operation and all her old acquaintances. . . and more than that, evidently. Emma could tell, by the way Rogers put a hand on Eleanor's back and drew her forward, that these two were bedding together in every sense of the word. It was far from uncharacteristic behavior for Eleanor, who had a strength of self-interest to make even Judas Iscariot weep, but it was still almost unbelievable. And if Emma herself felt the insult this keenly, she did not even dare to think about what Vane's reaction to this revelation would be.

"My dear," Rogers said. "These two have provided us a wealth of rather curious information, beginning with their claims about Robert Gold's apparently suspect allegiances and concluding with the lady's insistence that she is not, in fact, the female pirate captain known to ply these waters in recent years. The name I've heard was Emma Swan, would that be correct?"

Neither Emma nor Eleanor responded at once. Their eyes met briefly, and Emma stared at her in barely guarded fury, even as she was painfully conscious that letting too much of it show on her face would be its own answer. Then Eleanor said, "I know her. We've worked together."

"And?" Rogers prompted. "Is it her or isn't it?"

"I. . ." Eleanor hesitated. Then she seemed to decide that she could not afford to lie about something so likely to be found out soon anyway, and said reluctantly, "Yes."

Killian made half a move as if to draw the sword he had been forced to relinquish before entering the governor's presence, and Rogers' gaze flashed to him. Feeling it might be wise to be on her feet for whatever was about to happen next, Emma got up and moved to his side, even as Eleanor stayed next to Rogers; the line in the sand (or rather, floorboards) could not have been more clearly drawn if it was marked in fire. The tension snarled almost unbearably. Then Rogers, apparently deciding to drop the pretense of ignorance, said, "Captain Hook. That is what they call you these days, Jones, isn't it? Indeed, Robert Gold has had a great deal to say to me on the subject. If it was up to him, I would have already hanged you without you so much as permitting you to utter a single word in your own defense. The same goes as well for your – wife? But I have been invested with substantial powers by the Admiralty, and by His Majesty the King, to restore law and order to Nassau and the West Indies, and that does not necessarily include, exactly as you suggested, obeying Lord Robert's eccentric and bizarre imperial dictates without question. So if you came to me in hopes that I would chart a different course, that, at least, is gratified. As you can perhaps tell from the fact that I am pardoning Nassau's inhabitants – an innovation which, I am told, I ironically have Captain Flint to thank for proposing in the first place – rather than hanging them, I believe that the only way to bring civilization to a place is to behave in a civilized fashion. I have, therefore, my own proposition to offer you. I hear you have forged a considerable sphere of connections among your peers. Tell me about them, and we can arrange a way for you and Miss Swan – or is it Mrs. Jones now? – to go free."

Killian, who had clearly been prepared for anything but that, stared at him. "What?"

"I did think," Rogers said, still politely but with an audible tinge of impatience, "that I was quite clear. You are well-affiliated and well-informed with the rest of Nassau's high command. I want information on three: Flint, Bellamy, and Blackbeard. Vane's whereabouts can be more or less accounted for, given that we have his ship under guard in the harbor. Give me such intelligence as you possess on their vessels, their crews, their capabilities, their whereabouts, their disposition to submit – or not – to His Majesty's laws and keep His Majesty's peace, their recent activities, their associates, and anything else you consider relevant, and you can have the pardon in hand before sundown tonight. You have a daughter, you said? Don't leave her to grow up alone."

Killian remained speechless for a moment longer. "That's _all_ you want, is it?"

"Yes." Rogers finished off his claret and set the goblet on his desk, among the stack of papers. "Your freedom, in exchange for three names. That is, after all, the essence of it. I do not wish to have recourse to unpleasantries, and unless I am much mistaken, I doubt you do either. It is not so easy to sustain being a monster, is it, as it is to dabble? No matter the infamous deeds associated with the name of Hook, you fear going back into that darkness, don't you? The hold it had over you, and could again, if you were so feeble as to let it? That this time, you might not be able to stop yourself, or pull yourself out again? That this time, you might drown?"

Emma did not even need to catch a glimpse of Killian's face to know how squarely that blow had struck. She tightened her grip on his arm, hoping to emphasize if nothing else that they were a team, and would not be wedged and manipulated apart no matter how skillful Rogers was at throwing darts directly into their weaknesses. It was a terrible, infernal bargain that he was offering them, the one they had sacrificed so much to avoid – and yet for that, still so dreadfully, dangerously tempting. She didn't know what he was going to answer. . . and yet, she did.

Very quietly, knowing full well what this refusal meant, Killian Jones said, "No."

"No?" Rogers repeated. "So you would rather I follow the course of action Robert Gold would have me carry out for you, then? Or perhaps your wife can prevail on you to see reason? If you came to me purely to offer information in the first place, I confess myself bewildered as to why you would then balk at offering more. The man who burned Antigua and Jamaica is not, I assure you, long on options or on friends in the British government. I do not intend to spend unnecessary time, effort, or blood on this venture. Surely you will not squander your future on some misguided notion of chivalry, merely to prolong the inevitable. Unless, perhaps, your visit had ulterior motives? So I should, in such case, order men sent out to secure the island?"

"Tell him to cooperate," Eleanor said to Emma. "I can't protect you if he doesn't."

Killian looked at her with absolutely scathing contempt. "Cooperate like you, that is? Sell out absolutely anyone you can, so long as you survive?"

"As if you won't?" Eleanor seemed more angry than offended. "You burned down the entire world behind you, when you left your old life. I didn't. I'm helping Nassau survive, the same way I always have. You have no right to claim you're better than me. No fucking right."

"I wasn't, my lady." Killian's voice edged the honorific with ice. "I'm well aware what sort of man I am, and what I've done. But for better or worse, I'm still not buying my life with theirs."

"They wouldn't do the same for you," Rogers remarked, still lightly. "And as I said, you're so frightened of falling back into that darkness that you will be forced to absurd and self-sacrificial extremes to avoid it. I understand. Perhaps you wish some time to think it over?"

"I've thought it over. My answer's still no."

Rogers regarded them for a long moment. Then he turned, crossed to the door again, and opened it. "You as well," he said. "Come in, please."

Emma had a split second in which to experience a sense of impending doom close to a physical, visceral reaction, before she thought that she was indeed about to pass out – and not from the aftereffects of exercise or hot sun or childbirth or any of it. Instead, it was because that could be the only proper response to seeing what she now did. His face was heavily and nastily scarred down the entire left side, twisted and ugly, pulling the corner of his lip into a permanent sneer, and his eye looked as if it might have gone partially blind, milky and bloodshot. His hair was almost white with sun, his skin darkly tanned; whatever exploits he had endured after being fished out of the water and almost dying, they clearly had done nothing whatsoever for his temper. He grinned at them like a leering ghast. "Good morning."

"I believe," Rogers said, "you know Captain Henry Jennings?"

Killian moved almost too fast to be seen, shoving Emma behind him, as Jennings leaned insolently on the wall. He seemed to be immensely enjoying the abject terror his appearance had provoked in them. "Care for my pretty new face? I've the Barlow cunt to thank for that. Aye, and your brother, Jones. Governor Rogers was kind enough to offer me a post, and I've taken it up."

"What?" Killian snarled. "Gold sack you for failing to bring Lord Archibald back?"

Jennings shrugged. "Something to that effect, I suppose. But it was really more of a mutual decision to part ways. You see, I also want Nassau back. You and Vane turned on me once, drove me out only because I was too disadvantaged to resist. That's not going to happen again."

"Eleanor," Rogers said. "I think you can leave us now. Lock the door on your way out."

Eleanor hesitated, glancing sidelong at Emma. If she wanted to say something else, she didn't. Then she gathered up her skirts and swept across the floor, opened and shut the door, and a key clicked in the latch. It sounded like a prison cell in the very depths of hell.

Emma was trying to think straight, to come up with a clever plan – some lie, some trick, anything to buy them a bit of time, make Rogers think that they would cooperate, even if they wouldn't. But there was nothing in her head but white static and screaming. She had some half-baked notion of trying to fight both of them hand to hand, but Killian's grasp on her arm was as hard as iron, keeping her behind him. At least Rogers was still distracted, hadn't gotten around to actually giving the order to send out a patrol – that must give Vane, Rackham, Anne, and the others at least a decent chance to finish moving the gold aboard the _Jolie,_ and of sneaking onto the _Ranger._ But even if Vane did get to his ship, he still had to make it out of the harbor with a dozen Navy frigates on his tail, and that, even for a berserker of his very considerable abilities, was a ludicrously high risk to run, with no particular odds of success. And if he was shot down before he could get away, get to Flint, they were in fact all as good as dead.

"Captain Jennings is going to select one of you for questioning," Rogers said, into the horrible silence. "I wager that if you have recently been delivered of a daughter, Mrs. Jones, it would be especially cruel to subject you to such methods as he tends to employ. Once again, I remind you that this can be conducted far more easily and pleasantly for everyone. You can have a pardon in hand by tonight. Your fellows see no shame in taking it. Why not you?"

"There's a bit of a bloody difference," Killian said, "between taking a pardon and betraying the entire pirate republic and everything it stands for. In case you haven't noticed. _Mate."_

Rogers shrugged. "That is the thing about pardons. They are issued only to men who have sufficiently proved their contrition and penitence, and who can be trusted not to engage in their misdeeds again. For the common brigand and petty thief, such a process is relatively simple and straightforward. For Captain Hook, well. The standard is correspondingly higher."

Jennings grinned. "Come on, Jones. Don't go giving in now. I've been waiting to finish this since I gave you only one hand to please yourself with, back in Antigua the first time."

"Information," Rogers said again, calm and relentless. "Let's start with Blackbeard – from what I can gather, you are likely the least fond of him. Where is he? How many cannon is the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ running these days? Is it true that he and Vane have a particular association? Is Jack Rackham still with either of them, or elsewhere?"

Killian looked at them with a set, silent, mulish expression. Jennings shrugged, stepped forward, and punched him in the face, hard enough to hear bone crack.

Killian reeled, stumbling to his knees, as Emma flung herself down next to him, trying to shield him, but neither Jennings nor Rogers moved to launch a follow-up attack. Killian's nose was bleeding heavily, and he clumsily wiped it away with his sleeve. He grimaced and spat, even as more blood trickled down his chin. "You punch my brother too, or just shoot him in the head?"

"Your brother? The cut-rate Liam, you mean?" Jennings looked amused. "Only shot him, as I recall. No sense in wasting effort on that one."

"You son of a bitch." Killian wiped his face again. "He _adored_ you."

"That," said Jennings, "was his mistake. I can assure you, I'm certainly not kept up awake at night in fits of unproductive guilt about it. Now, I believe the governor asked you a question. Answer it, or it's her turn next."

"Either of you lay a single finger on Emma, and I'll rip your fucking throats out."

"So you're not going to let her be hurt, then," Rogers remarked. "Where is Flint? Why hasn't he returned to Nassau yet? Is he still associated with the former Lady Miranda Hamilton? Do either of them still have contacts in London, someone who might pass information to them, or vice versa? Where is your brother Liam? Who has he taken up with since leaving the Navy?"

Killian straightened up and spat blood onto the floor. Jennings started to step around him, clearly intending to hit Emma this time, but Killian threw himself in the way and took the blow directly in the chest, staggering back a few paces and gulping for air. "Bloody hell," he managed, croaking. "Let her go. Let her go! You can have me, if it pleases you. Let her go!"

"No!" Emma burst out. "No! I'm not leaving you here with them!"

"I have no interest in watching Captain Jennings pummel your husband for the sheer sake of brutality, I assure you," Rogers said. "Information, or neither of you leaves this room."

Emma bit her lip until she could taste blood in her mouth as well. She turned away, trying to get a look through the window – as horrible as this was, if they could stall Rogers (and Jennings) enough for Vane to get away, it might somehow be worth it. But they were too far away from the harbor to see anything, or even if the _Ranger_ was still there, and a cold spear of panic eviscerated her innards. They needed a miracle, they had never needed a miracle more devoutly than they did then, and yet she could see no front on which one might appear. Both Flint and Sam were too far away to reach them in a day or even two, even if they should happen to have some unexplainable intuition telling them to return to Nassau right now, Blackbeard would be too busy trying to take down Antigua, and unless Jack Rackham of all people was about to burst in here like an avenging angel, they were completely at Rogers' mercy, until either he or Killian blinked. She knew Jennings wouldn't, would not shirk or scruple at absolutely anything he had the chance to do. She remembered the story Sam had told her, about how Jennings had casually tortured his way through the entire French merchant ship, and those were men he had never met and had no particular grievance with. If he was capable of such depravity against perfect strangers, what he could manage against his sworn and mortal enemies was downright unthinkable.

"Sam Bellamy," Rogers went on, when nobody spoke. "Who helped you rescue him on Antigua? Is it true that he has been responsible for a veritable spate of ships taken near Tortola, including one carrying the daughter of the governor of Carolina Colony, a Miss Abigail Ashe? What was the precise nature of Benjamin Hornigold and the late Josiah Hume's grievances with him? Do you happen to know, for that matter, the identity of Josiah Hume's murderer, and the vessel responsible for the destruction and sinking of HMS _Scarborough?_ How many guns does Bellamy run these days? Where is he? _Where are all of them?"_

"Did your mother fuck the entire leper colony, Jennings, or did she just drop you on your head too many times as a baby?"

Instead of words, Jennings answered this with a spectacularly succinct and effective gesture that sent Killian flying, crashing into Rogers' desk and upending books, inkwells, papers, and a small sandalwood chest everywhere. While he was still flattened, Jennings sprang across the room in a single, horribly agile bound, got him by the collar, and began slamming him into the wood over and over, like a dog shaking a bird in its jaws. Then he drew his knife with one hand and dug the point of it into Killian's cheek, tracing along the line of the thin white scar until it was weeping blood. "Want me to mark this one a little deeper, or give you one on the other side to match?"

"Stop," Emma said desperately, whirling on Rogers. "Please stop."

"I asked for information." He remained as opaque and inscrutable as a standing stone. "I also asked quite civilly and repeatedly, and promised you a significant incentive for cooperation. You are both well acquainted with Captain Jennings, and thus knew exactly what he might do if you both continued to withhold material that is vital to the proper reestablishment of His Majesty's control over New Providence Island and its population of rogues, renegades, thieves, and traitors. So I am not sure, Mrs. Jones, what else you expect me to do. Conversely, if _you_ have some ability to persuade him from his present course, it would be wise to do so."

Emma stood mute. She would of course do anything to save Killian from being thrashed to a pulp by Jennings, but nor could she order him to betray their entire family and any faint hope at all for their world's very survival. As well, he had offered himself up as bait for the trap knowing full well that things might take a bad turn, and they still had to hold out long enough to cover Vane and the others. "I'll share it," she said recklessly. "If you're going to hit him, surely you'll do the same to me."

"Love to, actually," Jennings informed her. "Preferences where we start?"

"No!" Killian lifted his head, eyes wild. "Don't you dare! Emma, love, no. No. No!"

"In this case," Rogers said, "I concur with the pirate. I do not find it either desirable or defensible to beat a woman, even one accused of the same capital crimes as her male counterparts. And we may make some progress if Jones does not have his wife to put on a brave face for." He strode across the room to unlock the door, opened it, and held out a hand to Emma. "Mrs. Jones, please go downstairs. You will be summoned back if there is further call for your presence."

Emma threw a frantic look at Killian, begging him to let her stay, but just as obstinately, he shook his head. "Bloody hell. Get out of here. Go. Go!"

"Killian, I'm not going to leave you!"

"Yes!" he said fiercely. "Yes, you are! _Go!"_

It struck her like a lightning bolt, burning through her from head to heel. Her feet had been rooted to the floor, she was a dumb, useless stump of felled wood. It was only looking into his eyes, which remained stark and silent and imploring on hers, that gave her the strength to back out of the room, as the door slammed in her face, the key turned, and her knees almost gave out, as she clutched onto the railing of the landing and thought she might be sick, but she wasn't. Gulped and dry-retched a few times, throat burning, but then forced herself to pull it together. Neither of them would survive this if she lost her wits entirely.

After a moment, she turned and began to blunder down the stairs to the common room below, still busy with the commerce of pardons. Part of her wanted nothing so much as to run at them, overturn their tables and drive them out with whips like Jesus and the money-changers in the temple, curse them all for cowards, on account of what Killian was now going through due to his refusal to take one. Not if it came at the price of his, of her, of all of their souls.

Emma's throat was still dry as dust, but she couldn't think of eating or drinking, even as Eleanor spotted her from across the way and wove through the crowd toward her. "Emma, did he – "

"Please." Emma reached out to put a hand on the younger woman's shoulder, restraining herself from shaking her with a terrible effort. "You seem to have gotten some influence over Rogers. Eleanor, if we were ever friends, if you ever trusted me at all, anything – make him stop. Tell him something, anything. Jennings – what he'll do to him, he'll – "

"Tell Captain Jones to cooperate." Eleanor looked back at her, both guiltily and unyieldingly. "You two can be free! It doesn't have to be like this. But as long as your husband is capable of telling the governor everything he needs to know to put an end to this war and save Nassau, and doesn't, he remains a – "

"You are turning your back on everyone. Everything. All of us." Emma had no idea how to make her see, to get through to her. She wanted to be angrier at Eleanor than she was, but she knew that if Eleanor had charmed her way from a prisoner under likely sentence of death for treason, to Rogers' lover and valued source of inside information to complete the reconquest of Nassau, she had in fact done the exact same thing that Emma had considered when she was first captured by Killian and Liam. Seducing the man, making herself indispensable, giving him whatever he needed, inducing him to trust her, to loosen her leash, no matter what it meant for her old life. And as such, Emma recognized the deep kernel of fear in Eleanor that if she ever stopped doing it, if she pushed back against Rogers for any reason, all her hard work would crumble, would have meant nothing, and he would calmly turn around and consign her to the gallows anyway. For someone like Eleanor, whose own neck always came first, that was something she could not risk, could not even contemplate.

Still, though. Emma tried. "You could be free," she said. "Truly free. You might be out of chains now, but you're still a prisoner. You could escape, could – "

"Could what?" Eleanor's expression turned defiant. "Could run from island to island like a hunted dog, trying to stay one step ahead of the law, dying like some piece of filth in a ditch, when we all know what side will win in the end anyway? I'm glad for you if that's a future you fancy, Emma, but I don't. As I said, I've been fighting all along to save Nassau. That hasn't changed. The pirates aren't going to do it. Rogers and his men will."

Emma opened and shut her mouth, struggling for words, even as she was straining to hear anything from the room upstairs, to know what Rogers and Jennings were doing to Killian. Jennings' cruelty was one thing, and horribly well-known to all of them by now, but Rogers' was different. He did not love it, or perform it merely for sport, or even revert to it first in any given situation, but if he deemed it necessary, he would carry it out calmly and thoroughly, and without a single twinge of conscience to stop him. Indeed, he could hardly have set up the carrot and the stick more masterfully. Offer pardons to every ordinary pirate who would, for obvious reasons, think better of wanting to fight the full might of the British crown, and even be willing to negotiate with the dread Captain Hook behind Gold's back, if letting Killian himself walk free gave them the information to bring down the pirate republic once and for all. But if it was refused, if this eminently fair and sane-sounding offer should run into a wall of true conviction, then that wall would have to be not only broken down, but obliterated.

Emma couldn't sit down, even though she was once more feeling rather light on her feet. She thought madly of trying to make a run for it, but every door was well guarded by armed redcoats, and she would neither get very far nor do any good for Killian by it. Her heart was pounding fast and short in her chest, making it hard to breathe. They had been up there for well over an hour by now. She had reasonable faith in Killian's resilience, but this was no way in which she had ever wanted it tested. This must be exactly what hell was like, this interminable, impossible waiting, knowing that someone you loved was being tortured, and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

Another hour passed, then two. The crowd of pardon-seekers began to thin, and Emma caught a glimpse of Max, the owner of Nassau's most profitable brothel and another of Eleanor's old lovers, across the way. Evidently Max had also been forced into cooperation with the new regime whether or not she liked it, and her heavily kohl-lined eyes caught Emma's. Then she glided over, stopping a few paces short. Quietly she said, "So you are caught in this web too?"

"I. . ." Emma surfaced only slowly from her miserable reverie. She wasn't well acquainted with Max personally, as she herself had not had much occasion to visit the brothel, but the place had been popular with the _Blackbird's_ crew. Max, the daughter of a French plantation owner on Saint-Domingue and one of his kitchen slave girls, was both a mulatto and a woman in a world that generally had little time for either, as ruthless and hard-nosed a business owner, wheeler-dealer, and political intriguer as any man – and also not someone with any particular reason to love the English, appreciate Eleanor's backstabbing, or indulge in wanton cruelty. At that, Emma stood up abruptly, pulling Max around the corner and into a dim back corridor. "I need help," she whispered. "I need you to get a message to – to Anne Bonny."

Max's dark gaze flickered. She had also been involved with Anne (and Jack) at some point; indeed, while as a brothel owner and former house girl she had had to service plenty of drunken men, in her own personal life she preferred other women, another of the black marks she'd had to fight against. She said only, "Anne is on the island?"

"Yes. She and Jack Rackham, they're here. I know you have messengers, spies, ways to make contacts. Tell them that. . ." Emma hesitated. "Tell them where we are. That we need help. That Eleanor is working with the English, and Jennings and Rogers are torturing Killian for information. I'll pay. If that's what you want. Max. Help me. Please."

The other woman regarded her warily. Emma was well aware that this was a favor which, if ever found out, would be enough to convict Max herself of treason, and that money was hardly enough to offer for such a debt. But after a very long moment, Max put a finger to her lips and turned away. Without another word or a look back, she made her way gracefully across the room, giving no sign as to whether this was to do what Emma had asked or not. If the latter, Emma couldn't think of anything else to do or try. They would be trapped here until there was nothing left of Killian to interrogate.

Another hour and then some passed. It was the end of the afternoon, and dusk was falling. There was no sound from upstairs, and the last of the pardon-seekers seemed to have cleared out for the day. The redcoats were starting to think about supper, congregating in the hall by the trestle tables, laughing and drinking, as sheer exhaustion and desolation finally drove Emma to collapse in a corner. It was full dark outside when there was a faint thump in the hallway above. Then, after a moment, another.

Emma's chest seized up. As casually as possible, she rose to her feet and made her way to the stairwell, climbing up in the dimness and doing her best to stop them from creaking underfoot. At the top, she turned down the corridor, took a step – and almost tripped over the prone body of an English soldier, sprawled on the floorboards with blood gently pulsing in scarlet seas from his slashed throat. He had been killed without having time to so much as utter a squeak.

 _Oh, God._ Picking up her skirts, Emma plunged headlong – just as there was a gunshot from the end of the hall. The window was open, offering a clue as to how the murderer had gotten in, killed the guard, then climbed back out, around to the balcony, and vaulted into Rogers' office. Emma reached the door, lowered her head, and slammed her shoulder into it, as hard as she could. It sawed, groaned, and swung open.

Inside, it was sheer, silent, furious chaos. Rogers was bleeding down half his face; it looked as if the shot had skimmed along his skull, but not done any lasting damage, and said gun was still being pointed at him by Anne Bonny, who was trying to hold up Killian with one arm while fumbling for a fresh pistol with the other. Jennings wasn't there, as evidently Rogers had excused him so he could have a chance to work on Killian personally, but after the gun had gone off, he would be up here in moments, and the rest of the soldiers hot on his tail. At that, a mad, unthinking fury took hold of Emma. She snatched up a heavy candelabra from the desk, and just as Rogers was whirling toward her, hit him with it as hard as she possibly could. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he dropped like a stunned ox.

Emma, however, did not stop. She and Anne draped Killian's arms over their shoulders; he sagged, semi-conscious, as they ran onto the balcony, which had a grappling hook and rope thrown over its railing, clearly how Anne had climbed up here in the first place. They abseiled down in a barely controlled tearing hurry, burning their hands on the rough hemp, and at the bottom, stumbled against someone waiting to catch them – they had a black cloth tied over nose and mouth, but there could be no doubt that it was Jack Rackham. He took over Killian's dead weight from the women, as Anne pulled the hook free, they looked frantically from side to side, and ran for all they were worth.

The four of them zigged and zagged a dark, treacherous, stumbling path among the streets and side lanes, an echo of their arrival yesterday, but with the stakes unimaginably raised. They kept having to jerk back into the shadows and change directions as brigades of shouting redcoats with torches and muskets ran by, and finally made it to the edge of the city and into the woods, blundering, crashing, until they stumbled and staggered to a halt in the center of a dense jungle thicket. Wheezing, Jack let Killian down onto the matted vines, and Emma knelt next to him in a panic. "Killian. Killian? Killian!"

At last, a faint slit of blue showed under his battered eyelids. "Swan. . .?"

"Look at me." Emma cupped his face in her hands. "You're going to be all right."

"Not sure you want. . . to look. . . at _me._ Jennings rather. . . knocked the handsome out of me."

"Nobody's that powerful." Emma tore a strip off her skirt, wet it, and began to try to dab off the blood. "We've got you now. It's – it's going to be all right."

Killian's head rolled painfully to take in his rescuers. He and Rackham looked at each other particularly, until Killian struggled to raise his hand. "Could be. . . I was wrong," he managed. "About whether. . . you're good enough. . . for the _Jolie."_

Rackham looked down, genuinely moved and at a loss. This man had spent his life in the shadow of giants, striving his best as a dolphin in a world of sharks, and to have his efforts finally recognized must be all he really wanted, the proof of his worth that he had striven so hard to obtain. "I, ah," he said, and coughed. "Well, I don't know about that."

Killian closed his eyes again and sank back with a muffled groan, and for a long moment, there was no sound whatsoever. Then, and all at once, the night was split apart with fire.

Emma, Jack, and Anne looked up wildly, expecting that the redcoats had caught up with them, but this did not come from nearby. It came instead from the harbor. Flames were leaping merrily from boat to boat, all the smaller craft and supply launches, and at the center, the unmistakable shape of the _Ranger_ was starting to move. Her guns boomed out broadside as bells started to ring, summoning the crews of the Navy frigates up from evening mess and to their stations, as the _Ranger_ led a spearhead of fireships directly into the siege lines. There could be no doubt that Charles Vane had made it back to his ship, heard about Eleanor's defection to the English, and resolved on his most insane decision yet. He had used this exact tactic before, when he joined forces with them to drive Jennings out, and he apparently saw no reason to tamper with success.

The fireships drifted out of control, sending up towers of eerie orange smoke and spitting fountains of embers, as the frigates tried furiously to fend them off. The fort opened fire, but couldn't hit the _Ranger,_ a small and fast enemy target among a multitude of friendly ones, and the darkness was pulverized by the flash and thunder and echo of guns. Then the _Ranger_ ran the gauntlet, smashed through in a hail of screaming splinters, and made it to the open ocean beyond. It was raising as much canvas as it could carry, clearly well aware that it was going to have to run as fast and as far as it never had before, and though they obviously could not hear her, Emma found herself screaming. "Go! Vane, go! Go! _Go!"_

She then had to bite her lip hard, as she couldn't risk drawing the attention of any soldiers still hunting in the woods for them, but twisted her hands together in a mad, silent prayer. If Vane could make it to Charlestown in time and extricate Flint and Miranda, if Sam found David Nolan quickly and convinced him of Gold's perfidy, if Blackbeard did something to cripple Antigua's ability to channel reinforcements – if they could still have a chance, if they had anything –

Nassau Harbor resembled the mouth of hell, distant dark shapes burning and cracking and blundering, at least two of the frigates ablaze and sinking and the fireships still endangering several more. Even as Emma, Jack, and Anne huddled in the trees, putting Killian back together as best they could, the horrendous din went on and on and on. When it finally died down in the wee hours, leaving the air thick with smoke and ash and soot, an eerie, ringing silence took its place. Then as the sky turned grey, as another day began to come, but with the world so entirely and utterly changed, a new sound took its place.

Hammering.

Emma did not need to ask the others what it was. She knew, and knew as well that the promise of pardons had officially been revoked. The gloves were off, the gambit struck, no more kindness, no more mercy. From now on, any pirate would meet the same fate. All of them would.

They were building the gallows.


	37. XXXVII

**-XXXVII-**

The hangings started soon after nine o'clock. From their vantage in the trees, Jack, Anne, and Emma could see the line of prisoners marched out into the square, fettered at wrist and ankle, and up onto the gallows by redcoats with muskets, four at a time. A periwigged lawyer read the indictment, a further few soldiers pulled down the heavy hemp nooses and placed them around the necks of the condemned, and to the accompaniment of a long tattoo of drums, the captain pulled the lever. Four pairs of feet dropped through the trapdoor, four ropes jerked, and four men, if they were lucky, died more or less instantly. Of the three sets already accomplished, at least two of them had strangled slowly, jerking and kicking, until boys from the crowd darted forward and hung onto their legs, in hopes of breaking their necks faster and earning a few pennies for the service. Once they were finally dead by one means or another, they were cut down and piled into a cart, the ropes were restrung, and the process began again. Clearly, the intent was not to leave the corpses up to rot, but rather to impress the efficiency and extent of the operation. That the British army and Governor Woodes Rogers could hang all the pirates they wanted, thanks very much, and there was not a damn thing anyone could do about it. That they were very much going to wish that they had not decided to throw the offer of clemency back in his face. That now, regrettably, they had made him angry. Very angry.

It could not have escaped anyone, whether the soldiers or the men being hanged, that they had simply had the spectacular bad luck to be caught on the wrong side of events outside their control: they had turned themselves in as pirates in due course, expecting pardons like everyone else, but today that meant a noose around the neck, rather than a parchment in hand. If it was intended to stoke resentment against the diehards who kept fighting and resisting English authority, that their brash and ill-advised actions were forcing their fellows to suffer in retribution, it might have done that very well. Twelve – no, make that sixteen – men had died by the time the executions were temporarily called to a halt at noon, and Anne was pacing relentlessly, white and sick with rage. "Can't believe I missed the shot on Rogers. Two inches lower, I kill the fucking bastard, not just scalp 'im. Then none of this would be happening."

"It's not your fault," Rackham said, running a distracted hand through his hair. "They're punishing us for rescuing Hook, and Charles' fiery destruction of their blockade, not just Rogers' injury – though I don't doubt that's part of it. This is the catch in the bargain. Either we all should have taken the pardons when we had the chance, or they'll grind us into dust."

"I shouldn't have asked you to risk yourselves." Emma swallowed heavily, trying to look away; even at a distance, the scene was grisly, as the last of the sixteen men had all had lingering, painful ends. She tried to stop her ears to the sound of chopping as they were cut down for the gravedigger's cart. "If I could have gotten Killian out any other way – "

"No," Killian said hoarsely, eyes closed, from where he had been settled in a makeshift hammock between two palms. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have been so foolish as to propose we treat with Rogers. But I thought – he was my acquaintance from Bristol, I didn't realize. . ."

"We didn't have a choice," Rackham said, after a moment. "We had to distract him somehow, and at least we got the gold dug up and moved aboard the _Jolie Rouge._ If you're able to make it back across the island, we can. . ." He hesitated. Clearly, sailing away with Vane's treasure aboard their uneasily shared vessel would result in Vane being very angry when he got back from Charlestown (if he got back from Charlestown), and there was nowhere for them to go that was certain, or even very likely, to be safe. They could find some remote island and hope to hide out until the English got bored and went away, but that was signally unlikely. Besides, with such provocation as this, the whiff of decay already starting to reek ripe in the hot wind, nobody felt in any mood for running like cowards. It had been intended to frighten or guilt them into surrendering, but it was already having decidedly the opposite effect.

"Still, though," Rackham went on, voicing their dilemma. "Charles has helpfully smashed up half their fleet, yes, but they have at least six ships still in fighting order, and while the _Jolie_ could most likely take out a few more, we'd eventually be overcome. They could hang all of Nassau while we were brawling it out in the harbor, and finish up with us. We need more help."

"We need Flint and Sam back here." Emma sat down on the log next to Killian. "Vane might retrieve Flint, and if Sam finds David Nolan – "

"We'd still need more men," Rackham completed. "Even if Blackbeard finished up in Antigua and returned as well, we have no army, and no obvious place to acquire one."

"There might be, though." Killian sat up slowly, grimacing and wiping his mouth, as Emma regarded him anxiously. "Remember when we were crossing the interior of the island and needed to avoid the plantations? There must be a few hundred – or more – slaves on those. Slaves who have no reason to love their brutal English masters any more than the pirates do, and we already have someone who could talk to them. Lancelot and his men are still on the _Jolie._ If we send them to approach the slaves, sniff out the possibility of an uprising – "

Anne, Jack, and Emma all stared at him. "That's your plan?" It was clear that Rackham couldn't decide whether to be more impressed or incredulous. "Provoke all of New Providence's slaves into throwing off their chains and joining forces with us?"

"Do you have any other ideas about where we could find a force of similar size and motivation, in the very short time we have?" Killian's eyes were fierce. Emma knew that this was personal for him, the former slave, the man so deeply scarred by the experience that it still informed everything he was and did and felt, the boy held in indenture and captivity and the price that Liam had paid to free them. "I realize that I myself am not the most popular individual among them right now, for what I. . . what I did to Ursula, but Lancelot – "

"That's a dangerous favor you're asking," Rackham said, frowning. "He's a good quartermaster, I don't want to hang him out like a hog for slaughter – "

"He and his men left the Maroons' island because they wanted to fight their tormentors. Not just hide away in safety." Killian let out a long sigh. "It was in the bargain we struck. And the alternative is sitting here and continuing to watch the hangings, doing nothing, hoping Flint or Sam or Vane or someone gets back in time to pull our arses out of the fire. I don't know about you, but after what I went through yesterday thanks to bloody Rogers and Jennings, I'm not inclined to do that. We need to try."

"Can you make it across the island to the _Jolie_ again?" Emma asked worriedly. They had patched him up as best they could, but he was still in no shape for extended travail, or really much travail at all. "If someone saw us, if the redcoats caught up. . ."

"Then you'll give me a gun and I'll die fighting." Killian continued to hold her gaze. "I'm not in the mood for peaceable surrender, Swan. I doubt you are either."

"I can try to find us horses," Anne said. "Riding back'd be faster n' walking."

Rackham shot her an anxious glance, as he was clearly not sure that this was the time to risk horse thievery on top of every other outrage they had committed recently, but also forced to admit that likewise, one more thumb of their noses at English authority could hardly make much difference. They were destined to hang one way or the other, so they might as well be sure that they had thoroughly earned it. "Fine," he said with a sigh. "Be careful, won't you?"

Anne gave him a look as if to say that she was offended that he thought she would be anything but, and disappeared without delay into the underbrush. Left to wait until she returned, Jack and Emma did their best to ensure that Killian was ready to travel, which was mostly an academic exercise; either he would or he wouldn't. They sat tensely, ready to spring up at any sign of trouble, until the sound of clip-clopping presaged the reappearance of Anne, riding one dusty-looking horse and leading another on a short rein. She swung down with a look of grim satisfaction as Rackham, spotting the fresh bloodstains on her coat, rushed over. "You're not – ?"

"Not mine. Took these off a pair of redcoat messengers. Figured wherever they was going, best they didn't get there." Anne smiled sourly. "Cut their throats, so they won't bring their news one way or the other. There's this, though." She thrust a crumpled parchment at Emma, clearly filched from the saddlebags. "What's it say?"

Emma broke the seal and scanned the slanted, hasty scrawl. "It's from Rogers," she said, mouth dry. "A notice that the pirates have broken the king's peace and nullified the offer of pardons, and that he will be applying appropriate disciplinary measures until Charles Vane's outrageous actions are fully recompensed. Bloody hell, it's addressed to Gold. Lord Robert Gold. He says that he has been wounded in the discharge of his duty, but not life-threateningly, and is asking for more reinforcements to be sent from Antigua at once."

They glanced at each other sidelong as the implications of the letter sank in, and the fact that indeed, on no account could it be allowed to reach its destination. It was clear that Rogers regarded the events of yesterday as tantamount to a declaration of open war by the pirates on the Crown, and as such, would not scruple in doing this the hard way, no matter if he might be personally inclined to a quick and bloodless takeover. Especially since Vane was the main culprit, and as Eleanor was now sleeping with and siding with Rogers and her love-hate relationship with Vane had turned entirely to hate, that added a personal kick in the teeth to the whole thing. In his audience with Killian and Emma, Rogers had told them that he was not necessarily bound to follow Gold's dictates without question, but obviously there would be tighter cooperation between the two English governors in the wake of one attempted uprising. Trying a second, to rouse the slaves of New Providence to fire and fury, would mean still harsher penalties. If they failed, even the very memory of their existence might be eradicated.

There was another pause as they considered this. Then Killian said, "Well? Are we going?"

"I didn't steal the horses to look at 'em." Anne crossed the clearing and gave him a hand to his feet, a small but significant gesture given the fact that she even as recently as a few days ago had still not trusted him, and from the look on Killian's face, it was clear that he recognized it. He nodded briefly in thanks, steadying himself on the nearer of the horses, as Emma came to mount it. She then hauled him up behind her, as Jack clambered up behind Anne on the other one. With a final glance around to ensure that their exit was not observed, they cantered off.

Even with horses, the trip back was still a delicate prospect, as they could not be sure how far the English had proceeded in expanding their presence beyond their tenuous foothold in Nassau Town. The colonists in the interior might well be on heightened alert, guarding against any such potential slave revolt as the news of Vane's memorable exit trickled in, and as Lancelot and the Maroons could not visit all of the plantations at once, garnering their support would by no means be an easy or immediate process. If that did not work, well. . . Emma supposed that they wouldn't have much choice but to sail away in the _Jolie,_ God knew where, with the Spanish treasure in the hold. In that scenario, Vane's wrath would be literally the least of their problems.

It was not much less of a chore than last time, but they finally came into sight of the _Jolie,_ anchored where they had left her on the far side of the island, and picked a cautious course down to the beach. They picketed the horses in the mangroves and hailed the ship, which sent the launch out to retrieve them, and there were noticeable murmurs of concern as Killian had to be helped onto the deck. No matter their new career and command under Rackham, these were, after all, largely still his old men who had followed him into piracy to avenge his mistreatment at the hands of Gold and Jennings. They were thus, to say the least, not at all impressed to hear that Jennings (and Rogers) had had the chance for a second extensive go-round. "Jesus. Isn't that vile bastard _ever_ going to have the fucking good sense to die?"

"Doubtful," Killian said grimly. "The Devil Himself was never going to be easy to kill."

Someone muttered that they weren't sure even the Devil was as bad as Jennings – which, all things considered, Emma was inclined to agree with. News of the ongoing imbroglio in Nassau was likewise not well received. The _Jolie's_ crew wanted to know what was going to be done. Surely they weren't just intended to sit and twiddle their thumbs, and as former Navy sailors themselves, they wanted a crack at their own revenge. Emma had wondered if any of them might have second thoughts, consider going back over to their old employers as things were going from bad to worse for the pirates, but as all the men who wanted to return to the Navy had already mutinied and been killed or imprisoned, the only ones left were the diehards who were determined to cling to their new lives at any cost. Even if they were outnumbered, they had sixty guns. They could assuredly cause a great deal of further trouble in Nassau Harbor, still reeling from Vane's inaugural volley. Their vote was to proceed to a second attack at once.

Given this atmosphere of heated bloodlust, it was therefore a bit of a finicky matter for Killian to suggest that Lancelot and the Maroons try to recruit help from the interior plantations. There were hisses of disapproval – surely they weren't just going to wait and see whether a bunch of slaves decided to fight for them? Pirates were dying _right now,_ likely more if the executions had recommenced after their midday lull. Nobody else was around to handle it. Why not them?

"We'll think about it." Killian was clearly aware that trying to keep a lid on this for too long would be dangerous, and he glanced at Lancelot. "Do you think there's any chance?"

"Of persuading the slaves to join us?" The Maroon quartermaster weighed his words carefully. "Some of them might want to fight, yes. But farmhands with threshing knives and pitchforks are no match for trained redcoats with muskets and bayonets. Can you protect them from the wrath of their overseers and the British army together?"

"No," Killian said simply. "Not if we lose. Then again, we'll all die if we lose, and what's the alternative? Dying in bondage?"

"They'll have family members on other plantations," Lancelot warned. "The owners do that for exactly this reason: dissuading them from starting revolts. If one plantation rises up, their fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, sons, daughters on the others will be punished. Hating the same masters isn't enough on its own for them to fight with the pirates. There's only one captain that we know and trust as a consistent friend to us, and that, Hook, is not you."

"Who?" Emma asked, having more than an inkling.

"Sam Bellamy," Lancelot confirmed. "If I approached the slaves in his name, could swear by what he has done for the Maroons and that he would be a wise choice to ally with. . . well, as I said, it would still be no sure thing, but there might at least be a chance. The obvious difficulty being, of course, that he is not here on Nassau, and we have no idea when he might be again, if at all. And I can hardly ask them to risk their lives for the _possibility_ of his return."

Emma and Killian exchanged a troubled look. Their odds, already slim, seemed to be whittled thinner at every turn, and since Killian was still not the captain of the _Jolie,_ he did not possess the authority to order and enforce any course of action anyway. As he turned aside to cough, with an unpleasant squelching sound, Emma could see splatters of blood on his sleeve where he pressed it to his mouth. He was bearing up well, because that was Killian for you; his own suffering was unimportant when there was so much else to worry about, and because he had grown so used to squashing it down and foraging bravely onward. It was clear, however, that his working-over by Rogers and Jennings had been dishearteningly thorough, and just as Emma was not entirely repaired from childbirth, Killian was not in much state to be leading any skirmish parties. They could be reasonably certain that Sam would decide to rejoin them once he made contact with David, or even if he didn't, but as he did not know that the place was occupied by the British, he could sail in with too little caution and wind up as a fat prize for Rogers. Given that Sam had already just escaped hanging by the very skin of his teeth, nobody was in any hurry for him then to be trapped in a similar situation for the second time.

Nonetheless, they could not sit here and do nothing, they could not approach the slaves without Sam, they could not let any of their friends arrive unprepared, they could not stray too far from Nassau, and nor could they permit Rogers' request for reinforcements, and information in the situation to reach Gold. Therefore, after a rather rancorous caucus, the vote was taken to strike out and try to intercept any of the surviving Navy ships that might be setting sail to Antigua. Anne had killed the messengers, but that alone was no certainty of stopping the news from traveling, and in fact might have provoked another round of retaliatory hangings, if their bodies had been discovered. So the _Jolie_ weighed anchor and moved out from the lee of the island, into the lengthening shadows of evening. They would have to do this carefully, if they did not want to tip off the British as to their presence. Moved into the sea lane south of Nassau, and waited.

A few uneasy hours passed. There was nothing but dark, empty water and the moon rising brilliant overhead. Then someone shouted, a pinprick of lanterns appeared on the horizon, and through the spyglass, they spotted an oncoming frigate, flying full canvas and clearly in a tearing hurry. This, then, would be the target. Had to catch it up and take it down.

The _Jolie_ had snuffed all her own lanterns, so the other ship would have no warning or advance notice of their presence, unless they were watching very hard. Rackham and Killian ordered the guns loaded, as quietly as possible, and directed the men to their stations. Holding, _holding,_ until the frigate was so close that it seemed impossible for them to remain a secret an instant longer. Then, and only then, did they raise their voices to bellow the command in unison. "FIRE!"

The night lit up like an inferno as the full might of the _Jolie's_ broadside spoke their piece, screaming and hailing into the Navy frigate at nearly point-blank range. There were howls of rage and shock from the other ship, crashes and splinters as they struggled to get to their own guns; they had, of course, had no idea that there was any other pirate vessel remotely nearby now that Vane had buggered off so dramatically. By that time, the _Jolie_ had a second volley prepared, and one of the heavy thirty-two-pounders struck a direct hit on the mast. Five minutes later, the ludicrously one-sided battle was over, the frigate slewed and shattered, smoking and gutted, the Union Jack ripped clean through with chain shot and sprawled on the deck. It, however, was not about to be left to peaceably sink. The _Jolie_ drew up directly alongside, and the men threw ropes and grapnels, binding the damaged ship to them. Then they slid down and landed on the deck with whoops and hollers, brandishing pistols and cutlasses, as the stunned Navy sailors did their best to mount any kind of defense. This, likewise, did not last long.

Killian and Emma, neither in much fit state to fight themselves, watched from the deck of the _Jolie_ as the officer who looked to be in command (or else had been abruptly promoted) was forced to his knees at the point of a gun. "What's your name? What ship is this?"

"Go to hell, pirate scum."

This answer earned him the crack of a musket butt across the face. "Try again."

The young officer watched them mutinously, blood trickling into his eyes, as the rest of the _Jolie's_ crew continued to round up survivors. Finally he spoke with coldly correct decorum. "My name is Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey, of HMS _Halifax._ You brigands have assaulted and destroyed a ship of the Royal Navy and deepened your already unforgivable crimes against – "

"How many men did that shit Woodes Rogers hang?"

Lieutenant Geoffrey hesitated briefly, but apparently saw no need to hold back with this particular piece of intelligence. "Twenty-four all told," he spat. "Sixteen in the morning, and eight more before evening. And when he hears of this immensity, I don't doubt he'll hang at least as many again."

"I don't doubt you're right." The _Jolie's_ men appeared to be enjoying this, even as a faint shiver went through Emma. Lieutenant Geoffrey looked almost hauntingly like Killian had, down to the dark ponytail and searing blue eyes, now standing among the wreck of his ship and life – a man who, if he lived, might choose the same method of revenging himself, from the other side of the coin. _Does this ever end, or only go in circles, devouring itself and reborn from the ashes?_ "Which is why we'll have to make sure he doesn't. First, though. We're going to hang twenty-four of your men, and _you_ get to watch."

At Emma's side, Killian made a convulsive movement. He started to say something, then stopped. The similarity could not have escaped him, or the fact that he had no authority, real or imagined, to stop this. His hand tightened white on the railing, as Emma reached over to take automatic hold of his hook. They could not do much more than watch as the ringleader of the _Jolie_ men ordered the others to fashion nooses out of the torn rigging and shrouds of the _Halifax,_ force the Navy sailors into them, and string them up to dangle grotesquely among the hellish glow of the smoldering ship. "We're Captain Hook's men," one of them happily informed the sailor he was in the business of vigorously strangling. "We did Antigua and Jamaica before, you know. Murdered the whole fucking lot of the Navy out here, so the fucking Admiralty had to send you cunts in replacement, and now we've done for you too. Funny, eh?"

At that, Killian could no longer hold back. He had of course wanted the loyalty of the _Jolie's_ crew again, jealously and reflexively tried to pull it back from Rackham, but was clearly being starkly reminded of why he had traded it away in the first place, how he could not go on in this life while building anything remotely real and true and good with Emma. For this, he wanted no part of the credit. "That's enough!" he shouted. "Bloody hell, you bastards, stop! We don't need to do it like this!"

Heads turned to look at him still up on the _Jolie's_ deck, white-faced and furious. There was a brief and evident confusion, as the men clearly saw no good reason why Hook himself would stop them from doing terrible things to the Navy, especially when that had been his _raison d'_ _ê_ _tre_ in the heat and madness of his fall. Rogers had hanged twenty-four pirates; they should be, at the least, perfectly entitled to hang twenty-four Navy sailors in return, as well as repaying Killian's torture at the hands of Rogers and Jennings. But Emma felt, as deeply as Killian must, how sorely he did not want this to go on, the sordid exchange of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, blood and vengeance and violence on either side until it no longer was clear which of them _was_ in the right, or if there was any call to pride themselves on being better than Jennings in any way. Killian remained where he was, staring down at them, as his gaze locked with Lieutenant Geoffrey's. "I am Captain Hook," he said. "I imagine you've heard of me."

"I have, sir." The lieutenant spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "And indeed, what you and your mongrels feel justified in doing to the king's men, especially since you so foully turned your coat and joined the king's enemies."

Killian did not rise to the bait or appear inclined to fight with the young man. "I apologize," he said, not loudly, but his voice still carrying on the night wind, "for what we've done to you."

"Queer hour for it." Half the lieutenant's face was starting to turn black and blue from where he had been clubbed with the musket, but he was still holding onto his dignity for all he was worth.

"So it is, at that." Killian inclined his head fractionally, then turned to regard the _Jolie's_ men still on the deck, interrupted from the business of hanging the _Halifax's._ Again he said, "Enough."

"We can't leave them alive, Captain. Can't let them tell Gold or Rogers or anyone what we – "

"Their ship's destroyed, they're not going anywhere anyway. It's a bloody long swim back to Nassau from here, but I suppose they might try. Still, though." Killian shrugged. "If you _do_ want to cross me, you're welcome to do it, if you really think that's wise. Otherwise, you'll get back on the _Jolie_ now, and await further orders from myself and Captain Rackham."

More glances were exchanged. The moment hung from a tenuous thread. Killian had already been disastrously mutinied upon once before, after all, and he could well be inviting it again. But after a very long moment, slowly, his men – if grudgingly – did as ordered. They left off from their grisly work, climbed the ropes from the _Halifax_ back onto the _Jolie,_ and cut the lines loose, backing water. Without the _Jolie's_ support, the smaller ship quickly began to list and veer, too damaged to sail but not quite ravaged enough to sink. It was there that it was left, as if for the fates to decide how to play with it. The _Jolie_ put up her canvas again, taking the wind a few leagues south and east until they were well out of sight, and the night was dark and calm again.

Killian blew out a long, ragged breath, as Emma could feel both Jack and Anne watching them. She was unsure whether they concurred with the decision or not. Rackham was not innately bloodthirsty, preferring to talk his way out of tight corners rather than fight, and while Anne had no compunctions about doing whatever was necessary, she was not of a temperament for the unnecessary. All she said, however, was, "You sure of that? They tell someone, and we'll – "

"Their ship isn't going anywhere, and we're far enough away from Nassau that Rogers and his ilk will assume they're on their way to Antigua to warn Gold." Killian looked at her calmly. "I was not interested in being the justification for another massacre. The war does not hang on whether or not we killed them."

Anne considered this for a moment, still inscrutable. Then she jerked her head once and turned away, heading for the cabin, as Jack paused, then followed her. Killian and Emma themselves made their way down to a berth below, crawling in together with a mutual sigh of pain and devoutly grateful to stop moving. Fearful of hurting him further, but still wanting to be close to him, Emma nestled her head onto his chest, and he moved his hand up to stroke her hair. Into the quiet, she said, "You did the right thing."

"I did what was before me. No more. No less." He shifted with a sigh, looking up at the low ceiling. "I don't know if there's anything that's right any more."

Emma didn't answer, keeping her head on his chest, resting her hand on his stomach as if to be sure that he was still solid, had not been broken or dissolved in the ether. There was not much more either of them could manage in their respective enfeebled states, but they nuzzled together nonetheless, arms around each other, and fell asleep.

They were woken early the next morning by the sound of thumps and shouts and general industrious clamor from above, which briefly led them to fear that they had been boarded or ambushed unawares in the night, until they glanced out the porthole, saw the familiar shape of another ship, and then practically fell out of the berth in their haste to jump out and sprint topside. They emerged into a warm, salty summer morning, and thus saw possibly the most wonderful sight of their whole lives: the _Whydah_ anchored alongside, and Sam Bellamy, deeply sun-browned and salt-lashed black hair spilling out of its untidy ponytail, leaning against the railing of the _Jolie_ in intent conversation with Jack. At Killian and Emma's entrance, he looked up, then grinned. "Miss me, eh?"

Both of them rushed as fast as was physically possible across the boards, and he hugged them each with one arm, holding tightly. He kissed Emma's head, then Killian's, and stepped them back to have a proper look. "I heard what that bastard did to you, Killian. Are you – ?"

"Aye. Better now. Fine." Killian hugged him again. "Did you find Nolan? What's going on? Did Jack tell you about the idea with Lancelot and the others, that you could – "

"One thing at a time. Aye, I managed to cross paths with the _Windsor,_ and – well." Sam pulled a wrinkled parchment out of his pocket, sealed with the golden wax and signet of Lord Robert Gold's personal correspondence. "David gave me this. Something he was supposed to carry for Gold, but. . .well. He was persuaded that I could make better use of it. He also apparently refused the posting to Nassau with the rest of the fleet, said he should most properly return to Boston and resume his station there. I don't know if he'll fight for us, but he won't fight against us."

Killian and Emma glanced at each other, as this was at least better news than the worst. The _Windsor_ matched the _Jolie_ in guns, after all, and could have given them considerable difficulty if David Nolan decided that no matter what, he was honor-bound to follow the Navy's orders. "What's the letter?" Killian said instead. "Have you had a look?"

"Aye. It makes no bloody sense – it's in some kind of cipher. Not surprising, since Gold knows his mail might be intercepted and read by anyone before it makes it to its destination. Have a crack, though, if you think you might be able to make some sense of it."

"I will at that," Killian said distractedly, taking the parchment as Sam handed it over. "Did you hear of what's. . . going on in Nassau? Aside from my misfortunes, that is?"

Sam's lips tightened. "Aye," he said again. "And that Vane gutted half of the Navy's power there, but there's still far too much left for comfort, and that Woodes Rogers has made himself a most dangerous enemy. As for the plan you mentioned with Lancelot, well, I'll need to speak with him. Could be we can pull something together, but it'll be dangerous."

"Not surprising, surely. On your sailing, have you. . . had any news of Charlestown?"

Sam hesitated. "Nothing definite," he said, after an uncomfortable moment. "There was a packet boat, though, we caught it up late last night, shortly before we ran across you. Said that Lord Peter Ashe had some pirate lord or other in his custody, and he meant to make an. . . example."

"Flint?" Emma said urgently. "Vane left just a few days ago, he can't have made it all the way to the Carolinas yet, unless he had a truly legendary wind at his back. Do they have Flint?"

"Christ, I hope not. But I was having a hard time thinking of who else it might be, and – wait. Did you say that _Vane_ was going to Charlestown too? To save Flint, or kill him himself?"

"The former. I hope. We told him that the pirates had to join together, put aside old rivalries, that he needed to get to Flint and he was the only chance we had." Emma's stomach did an unpleasant somersault. "Did they say anything about a woman? Anything about Miranda?"

"No," Sam said. "Nothing."

"So they could still be alive, or they could both be dead." Killian's face was grim. "Or she's dead, and they're saving Flint for a spectacle. Jesus."

"Vane might be able to get to him in time," Emma said, more as an attempt to convince herself than anything. "But if Miranda – "

She stopped. She did not want to think about a world without Miranda, the one blow that she had always known that neither she nor Flint would be able to bear. That so soon after giving up her daughter, losing her mother as well was utterly, unthinkably, unfathomably cruel. "Miranda has to be all right," she said, in a sheer and simple statement that she rejected any circumstance whatsoever in which she wasn't. "She has to be."

Sam and Killian glanced at each other silently, as if trying to gird themselves, and her, for the fact that Miranda might well not be. Killian said, "Love – "

Emma shook her head, as if to say that she did not want to hear otherwise, and he stopped. A heavy silence hung over the three of them, until Killian cleared his throat. "I'll. . . have a look at this, then. Gold's letter."

They nodded distractedly, and he headed toward the cabin, limping, as Sam's eyes followed him with concern. "It was worse than he's letting on, wasn't it?"

"I – don't know exactly, Rogers and Jennings had him to themselves for most of the day, they threw me out." Emma swallowed, trying to fight the overwhelming sense of guilt that she should have done more, done better. "I don't think it was pleasant, though, no."

Sam crunched a fist and hit the deck railing. "So it's just trading off which one of us gets to be hurt the most by those bastards? Me, you, Killian, his brother, now Flint and Miranda? Bloody hell. I'm sorry you two had to go through that alone."

Emma put a hand on his arm. "I don't think it would have made much difference," she said quietly. "Killian didn't talk to protect you and the others. If you'd been there, they would just have hurt you too, and you've had enough, Sam. You've had enough."

He managed a lopsided smile. "I'd prefer to be hurt myself," he said. "Rather than letting it happen to either of you. That's easier to bear."

They stood there in silence for several moments, looking back toward the _Whydah._ Then Emma said, "How's Charlie?"

"Taking to the whole thing like a duck to water." Sam raised a dark eyebrow. "Natural, really. Still, I can't help but feel, doubtless like you, that a lad like him should have a better future than piracy – especially if Rogers is now hanging them by the wagonload. I tried to tell him he should go back to Virginia and resume his studies, but he doesn't want to hear it now. He's had a taste of this life, and he doesn't want to give it up."

Emma doubted that Charles Swan, invigorated by the thrilling experience of the very vocation he had once blamed her for partaking in, would be in any sort of temper to listen to his elder sister on this – the same paradox that Killian had faced in trying to call off the _Jolie's_ men from butchering the _Halifax,_ the seeming inevitability of stopping the turn of the wheel and the repetition of the cycle. Still, though, Killian had tried, so she supposed she could not do any less with Charlie, as soon as she got a chance. She started to say something else, then stopped.

"How are you?" Sam asked, softer. "After – everything?"

"I'm. . . I'm fine." Emma knew it sounded trite the instant it was out of her mouth, but even now, she didn't think she could face up to admitting the weight of everything. Of the small, dull, impossible pain of missing Henry and Geneva, sometimes ignored but never vanquished, and the way her body seemed to feel the lingering wound, slow to heal or bounce back or be like it was before, knowing it couldn't be. It was her turn to do her best brave smile for Sam. "Promise."

He raised the other eyebrow, but knew her too well to press for anything more. Instead, he put a hand over hers on the railing, squeezed hard, and they stood there like that, not speaking, until they were at length interrupted by the reemergence of a flustered-looking Killian. "Here," he said. "I might have found something."

Emma and Sam turned around to bend over the parchment with him. As promised, most of it was an elaborate, crabbed cipher that they had little chance of decoding without the key, but the part that had attracted Killian's interest was the small seal that Gold had inked at the bottom. It was a five-pointed star in a circle, with the Latin words _camera stellata_ squeezed in tiny script around the boundary. Furthermore, the letter was addressed to a _Mr Plouton,_ which sent a jolt like a lightning bolt through Emma. "Plouton – isn't that the man who – "

"Yes." Killian's lips were thin. "Gold's friend, the crooked assurance agent from Bristol. The one that Liam made that infernal bargain with for our freedom. Sink the _Benjamin Gunn_ for him, and he'd pay off our bonds and commissions. He was there at Gold's mansion the night Liam and I were accused, when Jennings cut off my hand. So they're more than business partners profiting off the misery and desperation of others. They're fellow members in – this. _Camera stellata._ Star Chamber."

"Star Chamber?" Sam blinked. "As in the Court of Star Chamber? Can't be. It was disbanded. Over fifty years ago."

"Wasn't that the court started exactly in order to convict the rich and powerful of the crimes that a lower judiciary couldn't hold them to account for?" Emma was not well versed on English law, but that name was sufficiently infamous that it did not take an expert to recognize. "Isn't that an ironic organization for him to be a member of?"

"No," Sam said. "Given that the Star Chamber became, especially under the Stuarts, an entity unto itself that could arbitrarily destroy anyone it pleased, a vessel for the personal tyranny of the monarch. King Charles the First used it in the eleven years he ruled without Parliament, a good deal of the reason they chopped the bastard's head off and stuck Cromwell in there instead. As I said, though, it was disestablished by the Commonwealth – or it should have been. If Gold and Plouton have started it again, I doubt it answers either to King George or to the tattered, defeated remnants of the Jacobite cause."

"So this would be it, then." Killian looked almost feverish. "The answer to the question of who Gold is truly loyal to, and what he's doing all this for. It's not England, it's not the Jacobites, it's not Rogers and the army, it's not the Navy, or even the Spanish. It's none of that. It's a shadowy secret society that thought it had the power and the right to overthrow even the mightiest people in the world, and answer to nobody in doing it."

"Fitting," Sam muttered.

"Aye." Killian smoothed the parchment. "This is high treason. As Sam said, the Star Chamber was outlawed over half a century ago, and was well hated before it was. So we – what? Hand this over to Rogers as proof that he should be fighting Gold instead, order him deposed and dragged back to England in chains? _I'm_ bloody well not going near him again."

"I could, then," Sam suggested. "If someone had to."

"No," Killian and Emma said together. "Absolutely not."

"Very well. I can't say I was terribly enthused by the idea either. I could give it back to David Nolan, though he might have set out for Boston already, but by the sound of things, I'm needed here to help Lancelot with rousing the slaves. Still. David is the only Navy captain with enough standing to make this accusation, the proven desire to listen to us, the power to arrest Gold, and get him back to London for trial. We need to tell him, not Rogers."

"Emma and I could go," Killian said slowly. "You stay here, Sam, with the _Jolie,_ and we take the _Whydah_ after David. If you'd agree, of course, but you'd need the firepower of the _Jolie_ , and the _Whydah's_ considerably faster. Where's Lord Archibald Hamilton, by the way?"

"He stayed on the _Windsor_. Found it a more congenial atmosphere than a pirate ship, even mine." Sam looked wry. "David isn't in a hurry to hand him in for being a Jacobite, so I suppose he sees it as his best option of winning back his position if this should all happen to blow over. I'd be willing to lend you the _Whydah,_ aye, if that's what you want to do. But are you sure we shouldn't better stay here together, rather than splitting up again? Yes, if we can topple Gold, that's the head of the snake, but the battle here on Nassau – "

"If we don't topple Gold now, we might never have the chance again." Killian tightened his grip on the railing. "I hear you about not parting ways again so soon, believe me, but nothing is going to come of sitting on this, especially if David is still nearby. It can't be that long of a voyage to catch him up and give this back. Any news of what Blackbeard might have done to Antigua?"

"No. I caught the _Windsor_ at sea, we didn't get near Antigua." Sam glanced at him. "Meaning that if Blackbeard managed to sack it after all, Gold might be dead anyway, without us having to run this risk? Could be, but I doubt it. There were several ships left behind to guard it – the Navy is going to take absolutely no chances with a second incident like yours. If anything, Blackbeard could have sailed into a trap, expecting easy pickings, and met them all waiting for him."

"Shit." Killian ran a hand through his hair. "So that's it, then? A quick voyage to overtake Nolan, hand this off, and then we return here. If Flint and Miranda don' t – " He stopped. "Well. We'll have to fight with the two of us, then. It's all we can do."

"I suppose." Sam didn't look particularly more enthused, but also couldn't demur. "All right. I'll take you over to the _Whydah_ and inform them of the arrangement. No sense, I suppose, in wasting time."

That part, at least, was more or less straightforward. Killian and Emma boarded the _Whydah,_ checked the charts against the last position where Sam said he and David had crossed paths, and determined they could most likely make it, assuming the wind cooperated, in a day or two. Sam, meanwhile, would stay with Jack and Anne on the _Jolie,_ and confer with Lancelot as to whether there was any possibility of making contact with the slaves in the interior. It was far from a perfect plan, but it was the best they had, and now that it was decided on, they did not want to waste time dithering. With a final warning to the other to be careful, as if that would make any real difference, they raised canvas and set out.

The _Whydah's_ crew knew their business, and did not need Killian and Emma breathing down their necks, so they gracefully retired. Emma went to talk to Charlie and Killian went into the cabin, more thankful than he wanted to admit to lie down on the bed and not move. He ached all over, pummeled and bruised and raw, and as much as he had done his best not to make Emma and Sam worry, he still felt as if he might abruptly fly apart if a single thread snapped. It hurt to breathe too deeply, it hurt to close his eyes. He couldn't pay undue heed to his own suffering when so much else was at stake, not yet, and he was still not convinced that he did not deserve it. The offenses on his account remained well outstanding, and what he had done last night was not, to his mind, terribly efficacious in settling the debt. There was still too much. Too much.

Killian dozed uneasily, too uncomfortable to slip under into real sleep, as the day whiled interminably away. They sailed hard, making up time on a strong nor'western, and as the _Whydah_ was also faster than the _Windsor,_ it seemed reasonably likely that they could overtake her soon if she was still bound for Boston. At some point he heard Emma come in, and wondered if he should wake up to talk to her, but that likewise seemed a considerable difficulty. She lay down next to him, quietly so as not to disturb him, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he should ask her to marry him. There was, as Blackbeard had asked him once, no chance he would meet someone he liked better, they already had a daughter, and perhaps Emma would want that, that promise, for whatever it could be worth. But they had watched Flint and Miranda married a few weeks ago, then promptly thrown into the maelstrom of Peter Ashe's betrayal, and there was no surety that either of them were still alive. Asking Emma, with that as a precedent, and Killian's own sense that he was nowhere near through atoning for his crimes and could not presume to have such happiness until he was, seemed more like a curse than a blessing.

Eventually, sheer exhaustion must have dragged him under like a boulder around his ankle, because he woke in darkness with someone knocking on the door. "Captains? We think we've sighted the _Windsor._ You'll be needed."

Gritty-eyed and sore to the bone, but at least devoutly grateful that something had bloody worked right for once, Killian pried himself upright with a tremendous effort of will. Emma sat up beside him, yawning and tousled, and he smiled at her quickly, leaning in to kiss her cheek, before they made themselves more or less presentable and trudged out onto the deck. The night was clear, calm, and lucent with stars, and when he peered through the spyglass and agreed that it was indeed the _Windsor,_ the crew moved to hail her. Killian thought of his _last_ encounter with a Navy vessel, the sight of the burning _Halifax_ and the men dangling in the rigging, and grimaced, pushing it away. He'd better bloody hope David Nolan did not know about that, or he might lose whatever slender tether of loyalty was binding him to assist, or at least not openly hinder, the pirates' cause. Most of it must be because of Sam, anyway.

In either case, it was time for the moment of truth. As David appeared on the _Windsor's_ deck, somewhat confused to see the _Whydah_ again and clearly expecting Sam, Killian stepped forward instead. "Captain Nolan?"

David blinked. "Killian Jones?"

"Aye. We've come to return something to you. You gave it to Sam the other day, and I, well, I had a look at it. If you can put off going back to Boston, there's something for you to do." Killian dug in his coat and produced Gold's letter. He was aware that this was a fairly thin piece of evidence on its own, but David could swear that Gold had handed it to him personally, and given the Star Chamber's notorious association with the Stuarts, and flagrant despotism and abuse of power, the Hanover regime would not require much more proof of duplicity. "This?"

"I gave that to Sam, yes." David looked wary. "Did you get anything out of it?"

"I did. That's this." Killian removed a second piece of folded parchment, in which he had written out as much of an indictment and explanation of Gold's crimes as he could. The English authorities would care more about the possibility of association with the Jacobites, but even as venal and corrupt as the system might be, it would not stand for everything Gold (and Plouton)had done in the name of seizing power, wealth, and absolute authority for themselves. If David could just get this to Antigua, it meant the end of Lord Robert Gold at long bloody last, and Killian could do nothing more than pray that he would, at this final juncture, be willing.

David considered him for a moment. Then he said, "We picked up a ship's boat earlier. Survivors from a frigate attacked last night, so they said, by pirates. HMS _Halifax._ Do you know of them?"

Killian hesitated only briefly. "Yes. The _Jolie Rouge_ attacked – we attacked them. The men. . . treated the captured _Halifax_ sailors dishonorably, and in my name. I have no excuses."

"It was a Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey who had command." David was still looking at him closely. "He said that you ordered them to stop."

"I. . ." Killian wasn't sure if this was a trap or not, but nor could he lie. "I did, yes."

"Even though there had been pirates hanged on Nassau by Governor Rogers?"

"When we were in Antigua, and you approached us to offer a bargain in saving Sam," Killian said. "You requested that we not destroy St. John's, and so we – Sam, Flint, and I – prevented Vane and Blackbeard from it. I have not changed my mind so much, between then and now, that I am any more eager to return to my old habits. I do not ask for praise, believe me. I know it is barely sufficient. But please. Take the letter to Antigua. Whether or not you care for me."

"Lieutenant Geoffrey was surprised, in fact. That you would." David continued to look at him. "He had been assured that Captain Hook was a monster, and indeed when his vessel fell under the _Jolie Rouge's_ attack, saw every reason to believe it so. So to hear this is. . . not what we expected, admittedly. Sam trusts you, as well. I admit I am not entirely sure why, but he does."

"I know it's a good deal I'm asking of you," Killian admitted. "But Gold's a traitor no matter what creed either of us believe in, and I know you're not afraid of standing up to defy the Admiralty, to do what is right no matter what the law says. You did it to save Sam from Hume, and you did it again on Antigua to help us save him. I know you're a good man. I don't know what I am, but if you don't help us, no one else can."

"For a. . . for a pirate." David smiled wanly. "You've grown on me a bit, I suppose." He hesitated an instant longer, then said, "Fine. I'll take the letter."

Killian let out a barely-muffled heave of relief. "Thank you."

David nodded. It seemed as if there was something else he wanted to say, however, and after a moment he finally said, half in a rush, "Your cause. Your. . . I suppose they must be your friends. That was the other news we had. About Charlestown."

Killian distinctly felt his heart skip a beat. "What? What about Charlestown?"

"I'm sorry." David, at last, could no longer quite hold his gaze. "They had Captain Flint prisoner. They – well, I don't know what happened exactly, but it's so. He and his wife are dead."

* * *

Liam Jones had not intended to sail for Charlestown. Indeed, it was the last place he had ever planned to go anywhere near, well aware of what was about to befall it and not wanting any delay in reaching Paris, and safety. He also saw no reason to test the veracity of his pardon while they were still anywhere close to someone who could dispute it, and wanted to be far away from the Caribbean, and the Americas in general, before the hammer fell. And indeed, they had made it several days out, doing as well as could be expected given the circumstances, before the wind had abruptly turned contrary, stalled or slacked, and left them in the doldrums for several more. Liam was edgy, as he did not want Geneva fed from the nanny-goat longer than she had to be. The best thing to do, after all, was to engage a human wet nurse for her as soon as possible, and if the goat stopped giving milk before then, it would be, clearly, a dangerous situation. At least the weather had more or less held up, but they needed bloody wind.

Still. Charlestown had not figured in any way in his calculations, and likely never would, if it was not for the tender ship that had crossed their path the other evening. They were not far off from Bermuda, which lay almost directly due east of the Carolinas in the Atlantic, when they spotted it. Tenders were supply ships usually found close to harbors and ports, not intended for sustained open-sea travel, and that was why this one caught Liam's attention. He frowned, ordered her to be hailed, and when they had drawn near enough for conversation, noted that the ship looked as if it had been driven pell-mell away from – well, _something_ terrible, as fast as humanely possible. The captain likewise only insisted that he had no choice, he had to get away. "Pirates. Pirates burned it. Killed Lord Peter Ashe, sacked it, would have done God knows what other horrible things to me and my men if we hadn't fled! Madness. Madness!"

"Charlestown was _sacked?"_ Liam was certain he could not be hearing correctly. "By who?"

"There was one Ashe had prisoner – Flint, I think – and then another turned up. Some bleeding madman called Vane. They took the city to pieces, between them. Not sure which of them killed Ashe, but one of them did. Sailed away only once the lot of it was on fire."

"Charlestown." Liam knew he sounded foolish repeating it, but he was staggered. He hadn't precisely expected Flint to sail in and make fond reparations with his old friend Ashe, magnanimously forgive him for the betrayal, but something on this scale suggested that the calamity was far greater than anyone had planned for. "Did you hear anything about a woman? Miranda Barlow? She would have been with Flint."

The captain gave him a very strange look, as clearly the proper response was not to ask about whichever harlot the pirate had with him, but to commiserate about the ordeal they had suffered and agree that the outrage was indefensible. "No idea. Heard there was a woman shot in the Governor's house, aye, but couldn't say who. We weren't interested in waiting about for details, not when the bloody place was burning to the ground."

Liam and Regina exchanged a long and troubled look. Neither of them were certain how to ask for more details, which the captain clearly did not possess, without giving away their position on the whole thing. Once the two ships had drawn apart, Regina said, low-voiced, "He could be mistaken. About her."

"He could be." Liam grimaced. "I don't know that we should wager that he is."

Regina's lips went thin. She would never admit out loud to caring about anyone, but Liam could see well enough that she was worried about Miranda. He felt the same, as the two of them had not survived Jamaica, Jennings, storm, shipwreck, and being set adrift with her only to feel that this was any sort of just ending for her. If she was already dead, there was of course nothing they could do, but Liam was not altogether sure that they could simply sail away without knowing for certain. He knew as well that Miranda and Emma were very close, and that as this was Geneva's grandmother for all intents and purposes, they still had a duty to their family. He looked at Regina again. "Is there any way it would be worth it?"

She glanced down. "Geneva isn't feeding well from the goat's milk," she said after a moment. "It's keeping her alive, but she isn't gaining weight or growing, and she cries half the time. She still could get to Paris if the wind cooperated, but. . . if nothing else, there would be a wet nurse in Charlestown. It wouldn't be that long of a voyage from here."

"Aye." Liam had certainly noticed the baby's inconsolable crying, as had most of the ship; it was not that large, after all, and it was hard to shut the noise out. "But if it's been sacked, it can't be terribly safe. Or – "

"If it already _has_ been sacked," Regina pointed out, with a certain acerbic edge in her voice, "there's hardly very much that anyone can do to it again, can they? You could pull off one of your usual heroic actions and rescue some poor woman who needs to get away from the city and can provide milk for a newborn as payment. And at least know what happened for certain, instead of relying on whatever _he's_ telling us. Or if not." She shrugged. "By all means."

Liam gave her a cold look. The two of them had grown decidedly fond of each other in a way that went much deeper than mere sex, but he knew that meant that if for any reason he decided against it, Regina would bash him over the head, tie him in the hold, and ensure they went anyway. This seemed an easier way for all concerned, and he was not sure any of them wanted to risk a crossing without being sure of Geneva's welfare. "Very well," he said at last. "We'll go."

That was how, therefore, he found himself making bearings for Charlestown, against all odds. The _Jolly Roger_ was fast and light, and the wind, as if in a sign that they were indeed supposed to be going in one direction and not the other, strong at their backs, which sped the journey. It was clear as well that Geneva had all but stopped taking the goat's milk, which sharpened the urgency to make it in haste, and Liam worried himself to distraction about what he could remotely tell Killian and Emma if their daughter died in his care. It was, therefore, with something perversely close to relief that he finally breathed the first distinct whiff of soot and smoke and char in the wind, drew around the headland, and beheld the scorched and scarred waterfront of Charlestown. It was as comprehensively destroyed as Kingston had been, when he and Regina had arrived there on their search for Killian the first time.

"Jesus," Liam muttered reflexively. Flint and Vane had undoubtedly been very thorough and very angry, and after a brief discussion, he, Regina, and Will decided to risk rowing ashore. Will would find a wet nurse and bring her back to the ship with all dispatch, while Liam and Regina would do their best to sort truth from rumor. The sun was going down as they launched the boat, made it across the harbor inlet, and dragged it up on the sand. It was heaped with broken planks, fallen stone, and rotting bodies. The smell was like a punch in the face.

Will, gagging slightly, pulled his shirt up to breathe through the fabric, not that that did much to help, and hurried up toward the city, while Liam and Regina did their best to start combing through the wreckage. They didn't want to find Miranda here, or anywhere in this abattoir, but now that they were here, they could not leave without knowing for certain. It was quickly getting dark, so they lit a torch and Regina held it overhead while Liam dug through the mess. It looked as if this was where the citizens had dragged out the snapped debris and detritus from the burned streets, and whatever corpses had not been claimed for proper Christian burial. Liam's gorge rose in his throat as he kept working. Hopefully Will had had better luck than they had, would have found –

Oh, _bloody hell._

He shifted aside a shattered heap of rubble, and his breath shriveled in his throat.

Miranda had been shot glancingly along the skull, as if someone had been aiming for the middle of her forehead, but she had been shoved aside in just the nick of time. The blood was crusted and red-brown down her face and shoulder, and her dress was filthy, stained with rubbish and offal, as if people had thrown things at her. Perhaps her body had been carried out for triumphant display, to prove that this was what became of pirates and those who fraternized with them, and both Liam and Regina uttered small, choked sounds at the sight of her. She certainly looked quite dead, but on some mad whim, Liam held the buckle of his sword close to her lips, hoping to see a mist. Nothing.

"Come on," he muttered, pushing Miranda's hair aside to inspect the wound. It was serious, but he couldn't conclude decisively that it had been fatal. She hadn't started to rot either, so there had to be some tiny spark left, somewhere. Maybe. Maybe. He found himself whirling on Regina. "Your vodou medicines, your potions. Whatever the Maroons did to me – they saved me, I was as good as dead too, and they did some ritual to bring me back, when Killian went down and pulled me out. You have something, you can do that. Can't you?"

"I don't – " Regina looked shaken. "I'm not sure."

"Miranda survived being shot once before, when it should have killed her. Asleep, but alive, for weeks." Liam was, as well-attested, extremely stubborn. "Didn't she?"

"As far as I know, yes, but – "

"We have to try. We have to try." Liam shouldered aside the wreckage and lifted Miranda carefully in his arms; she was as light and insubstantial as a wraith. "Come on."

They made it back out to the _Jolly,_ whereupon they reconnoitered with Will, who had in fact just returned with a wet nurse. Geneva was suckling vigorously, since the poor child had after all been more or less slowly starving, and with a hearty sigh of relief, Liam kicked open the cabin door and carried Miranda inside. Regina fetched her potions and drugs, which he had been extremely dubious of when she thought she could control Jennings with them, but were the only hope they presently had. She burned something in a bowl, which filled the cabin with soporific, stupefying smoke and made Liam think he heard bells, then muttered something under her breath, concentrating intensely. He wasn't quite sure that this was how Merlin and the Maroons had done it, but then, he had been unconscious for most of that, so he wasn't exactly in a place to judge. And he wouldn't quibble with bloody anything, if it worked.

This went on well into the night. Regina had tried everything she could think of, in some cases twice, and still nothing. At last she sat back on her heels, flushed and upset, hair falling in her face. "I can't do anything else. I – I'm sorry, Liam. I think she's gone."

Liam passed a hand over his face, telling himself that he could at least comfort himself, however coldly, with the knowledge that they had done everything they could. But he still did not want, could not simply take this as an answer. "Killian saved me! It's possible!"

"It might be," Regina said. "But I'm not Merlin. I don't know everything he does. I doubt she's make it on a return voyage to the Maroons' island, or that they would necessarily agree to another full vodou ritual. It's difficult, and it's dangerous. Or – "

At that moment, a slight wind passed through the cabin, though the windows were closed, making the candles flicker and gutter. It was cool and sourceless and strange, and it made Liam think, briefly and incongruously, of drums. He blinked as if only just waking up, had to check to see if he was still standing and not lying down, not sleeping. He glanced at Regina to see if she had felt it, and found her looking just as unsettled. "What was that?"

"I don't know." Regina swept her tangled hair out of her eyes. "I wouldn't be surprised if this place is swarming with ghosts. Or worse things."

Liam wasn't sure how to respond to that, as the practical, logical, rational side of him wanted to insist that there was no such thing as ghosts, but given that he had some experience with vodou magic and indeed owed his life to it, he supposed he shouldn't be too hasty in throwing those particular stones. He opened his mouth, but didn't remember what he was going to say. He was interrupted instead by a harried knock on the door. "Captain. Captain!"

He turned with a start. "Aye?"

One of the crewmen ducked inside. "Captain. We've spotted a ship."

"Flint? Vane?" Liam hoped they weren't returning with the intention of making another pass over the flattened city, though if it _was_ Flint, he could at least – well, he wasn't sure. It didn't seem particularly well-omened in any case. "Or no, not a pirate. Someone sent to examine the damage? See how bad it is, report back?"

"Aye. Imagine so."

"Who?"

Instead of answering, the man simply stared at him, with an utterly foreboding expression.

"Oh," Liam Jones said. "Fucking _hell."_


	38. XXXVIII

**-XXXVIII-**

The moment the incoming ship cleared the breakwater of the harbor, she opened fire. Liam stood dumbly on the deck for a split second longer, spyglass pressed to his face in some misbegotten hope that one more inspection would somehow prove it to _not_ be who it was, and then whirled away with a roar, pushing Regina down, as the battery struck, sending up a hail of splinters and cracking a beam. They were still just that bit out of range, preventing them from taking the full bore of the cannon, but that would not last more than a few minutes. The _Jolly Roger_ was only lightly gunned, the wind was with the newcomer, and even if they managed to get up enough canvas to run for it, there was nowhere that they would not be chased. The account was far too long, and far too terrible, for that. They had to make their stand here, and fight Captain Henry Jennings for what, Liam knew coldly in his gut, would be the final time. For which of them, there was no way to say, but death hung tangibly in the air, over the burned city of Charlestown, over Miranda pale and lifeless in the cabin, in the remorseless approach of the _Bathsheba,_ as her bow-chasers blazed brightly again, and the air whistled and hissed, the water splashed, the hull thumped. By the next volley, they'd be dead to rights.

" _Go!"_ Breaking out of his reverie, Liam spun around, grabbing Regina by the arm. "Get the nurse, get Geneva and Henry, and _get below,_ into the hold! Now! Don't come up until I find you!"

"As if the hold's going to be safe, if Jennings scores a direct hit!" Of course, even now, Regina would have to argue with him. "We'll be trapped by the water before we have a chance to escape!"

"If we sink, we're all dead. It's the safest place for now, we can't let him get the children, _go!"_

Regina opened her mouth, thought better of it as a cannonball screamed just past the shrouds, and darted inside, emerging shortly with the nurse, a petrified-looking Henry trying very hard to be brave, and a squalling Geneva. She steered them across the deck and down the hatch as Liam shouted at the crew to prepare for action. They carried only minimal stores of powder and shot, as they knew that any gun battle would end poorly for them anyway, and they hadn't wanted the extra weight to slow them down on the crossing to France. There was no way they were blasting their way out of this, and Liam looked around wildly for something else. If there were wrecked or burned ships in the harbor, if he could trick Jennings into fetching up on one of those – he could not let that mad animal on here with Regina and the children and Miranda, he could not –

Briefly and uselessly, Liam hoped that Jennings was actually dead, and that this was just another enterprising captain who had taken over his ship and his crew, but he already knew that he wasn't. Perhaps all along, this had been inevitable. That it always had to end like this. One last battle, one last time. Only one would walk away from it.

The _Bathsheba_ was running up hard on their fore port quarter, clearly intending to prevent them from getting any space to slip free, and Liam dashed to the helm, driving them for the vee of open water just beyond. If they were boxed in here, it would be like shooting ducks in a gallery – at least if he made it out and down the Carolina coastline, he could find some convenient sandbar or shallow reef. The art, of course, would be only tearing out the _Bathsheba's_ hull and not their own, and as both vessels were of comparable size and draft, anything that jeopardized Jennings would endanger the _Roger_ as well. But there was no other choice.

The next bombardment chewed through one of the foresails on the spar, as the two ships were now almost level broadside, and Liam bellowed at the men to load and light one of their precious volleys. The five-gun array was nothing near enough to daunt the _Bathsheba_ permanently, but it might get their attention, and he felt the deck kick and sway under his feet as they spoke. _Eat shit, you son of a bitch._ Liam had a sword and a pistol, which felt like very slender surety in any hand-to-hand fight. He had of course taken two serious wounds, which – even mostly healed – would unavoidably slow him up as well, and while Jennings might be somewhat damaged, at least cosmetically, from whatever Miranda had done to his face with the oar, this would only have made him angrier. _I cannot let him get on board. I cannot._

When the smoke cleared, however, Liam saw a direly unpromising sight. The _Bathsheba_ was still closing, the _Roger's_ measly six-pounders appeared to have irritated rather than impeded them in any significant fashion, and the Charlestown headland was coming up fast to starboard. It was clear that Jennings intended to crush them against the rocks if he could, rendering the _Roger_ helpless and prime for boarding, and then – no, what came next was too horrible to imagine. _Why is he here?_ Not that it mattered, not really, and all Liam could come up with was that Jennings had probably been sent after Vane, his former partner in crime and co-robber of the Spanish wrecks, upon receiving word that Vane (and Flint, of course) had done their worst to the city. That he should stumble upon the chance to have his final confrontation and vengeance upon Liam, Regina, and Miranda as well was mere and morbid serendipity.

"MORE SAIL!" It was a symbolic order at best; their foresail was torn, their topgallants were already flying, and the wind was against them, but Liam couldn't stand watching this, the way the two ships were veering inexorably closer and closer, like a catastrophe in slow motion, like a nightmare from which he could not wake. The water purled and frothed white, the _Bathsheba's_ starboard battery boomed like the drums of hell, and he felt a horrifying scrape and jolt from the keel. The _Roger's_ draft was eleven feet, and here by the headland, they must quickly be getting shallower than that. In a minute more, they'd be stranded, aground, and completely defenseless.

Liam wrestled the wheel once more, feeling them swing and snap and struggle against what seemed to be the crushing fist of fate itself, and managed to buy them a few more yards, just clear of the shoals. Still the _Bathsheba_ was closing, and he could see men on the other deck with throwing grapnels. There was only one order left to give, one final stand to be made. Fine, then. Fine. If nothing else, William Raleigh Jones would do his duty to the last.

"PREPARE FOR BOARDERS!"

The next moment, hooks came flying out of the night and mist – hooks, Liam thought, _hooks,_ how bloodily, fittingly, perversely appropriate – and latched onto the railing, biting out sharp divots of wood and trailing ropes like Medusa's snakes. They were followed almost instantly by the hooting, hollering hordes of Jennings' men, piling over and bristling with every sort of deadly weaponry. Oddly enough, however, none of them seemed to be using it – yet. They were holding in check, arrogant in the knowledge of their superior numbers and armaments, over the _Roger's_ valiant but tiny crew and almost total lack of resources for an extended fight. _They're toying with us. Jennings has been waiting too long. He doesn't want us dead before he enjoys himself._ The very fate they had gone overboard to escape in Jamaica, now, here.

The last figure, the tallest, the most casual and vindictive of the lot, emerged from the mist like the Devil stepping from the clouds of brimstone, loosed from a crack in hell to visit mere anarchy upon the world. His shaggy sun-white hair was tied back from his face, as if to give Liam the best inspection of its new look. Twisted and scarred and hideous down the left side, lip pulled back over his teeth, eye milky and bloodshot, as if Ulysses had tried to blind the Cyclops and not quite succeeded. It was clear, however, that Jennings had suffered absolutely no impediment to his marksmanship, if the pistol he drew and pointed dead at Liam was any indication. "Good evening, Captain Jones. Just caught up with your little brother recently. So lovely to see you again as well."

"Killian?" Liam knew that he shouldn't say anything, that this was already enough of a disaster and would only get worse, but as ever, the mention of his brother caught him hard under the chin. "What the _fuck_ did you do to Killian, you sick bastard?"

Jennings grinned broadly, rendering his disfigurement even more ghastly. "Just got to see if he was interested in talking, alongside Governor Rogers. He wasn't, you'll be proud to know. Though since it got his arse skelped raw, I'm not sure that was the smartest decision."

"You what – you tortured him?" Liam felt his fists clenching, his anger rising in his chest like a cutting black tide. All he could think of, any way to head Jennings off from finding their precious passengers, was the same. "Fine, well. You must have plenty of the same you want to do to me. Don't you want to fight me? Hurt me? Come on, take me."

"And why would you be in such a hurry for that?" Jennings studied him thoughtfully, head to toe, with that same amused ease with which he did everything. He rested a hand on the hilt of his cutlass, and Liam saw the gleam of his old ring, the one Jennings had taken from Emma so long ago and never given back. "You and I know each other too well, Liam. As I've told you so many times, we're all but the same. Who are you protecting? Who else is here?"

"Nobody."

"Oddly enough, I think you're lying." Jennings raised a hand, beckoning to his men. "Search the ship. Stem to stern. Anyone you find, I want them brought up here. Alive, for the moment."

Liam lunged at the first of them, throwing his shoulder into them hard, and while it knocked them back on their heels, it clearly confirmed to Jennings beyond a doubt that his hunch was correct. He cocked his pistol, twisting it into Liam's skull behind the back of his ear. "Not yet, Jones," he said lazily. "You're not going to die for quite a while, I'm afraid."

Liam grabbed at the muzzle, twisting it aside and almost getting up enough leverage to rip it out of Jennings' hand, but Jennings punched him viciously with the other, making his teeth clack and his breath choke as he stumbled back. Still he tried to reach Jennings, not caring if he was shot, as anything in the entire world would be easier to bear than what was about to happen, but Jennings dodged adroitly away. Then he gestured to more of his men, who had had their hands full with subduing the _Roger's_ crew. "Tie him."

Liam kept fighting as they lashed him to the mainmast, biting and kicking, until another blow full across the face stunned him and left him briefly unable to resist as they finished the knots. Blood was dripping in his eyes as he heard the hatch creak, and saw Will, Regina, Henry, and the nursemaid with Geneva marched out before Jennings, who wore an expression as if Christmas had come early. A moment later, another few crewmen emerged from the cabin, dragging Miranda's body, which they dumped on the boards. "Her too! Can you even bloody believe it, Cap'n? All of 'em!"

"So I see." Jennings licked his lips, considering his tantalizing options, as Geneva continued to scream and he looked briefly aggravated. "Silence the brat, or I will."

The nursemaid joggled Geneva frantically, face white; she clearly had not expected to walk into the middle of hell on earth (escaping the other hell of Charlestown, that was) when she agreed to come aboard and feed a hungry child. Jennings paced deliberately down the deck, stopping to dig the toe of his boot into Miranda's side. "This," he announced, "was the cunt who made me so _very_ pretty, lads. But then, we knew her well, didn't we? Seems she's been paid back for that mistake, but surely there's more to be done?"

"Don't." Liam knew he was begging, knew there wasn't much he could do, there was _nothing_ he could do, but he would have wanted to have his shoulder annihilated by a falling spar, or to be stabbed by his half-brother, a hundred, a thousand times before enduring this. "You can have me, Jennings, you can bloody do whatever you want to me! I'm your enemy, fuck you! Fight me!"

Jennings eyed him up and down, slowly and insolently, then turned to the nursemaid, putting a finger beneath Geneva's chin. "Pretty child. Not yours, I'm wagering?"

The nursemaid opened and shut her mouth in terror, clutching the baby closer, as Will Scarlet decided just then that he had had more than bloody enough. He broke free from the crewman holding his arms, whirled and kneed him in the balls hard enough to bend him double, and ran straight at Jennings, who turned an instant too late. Will tackled him flat to the deck, punching every inch of him he could reach, as Regina took advantage of the abrupt confusion to likewise stamp on the foot of her captor, slam him in the face with her elbow, and race toward Liam. She pulled the boat hook off its mount – the same kind of hook that Killian had made into his namesake and replacement hand – and slashed at the knots with them, unraveling the ropes as they fell with a slap. Liam wrenched free, drew his sword, and sheathed it in the belly of the first privateer to lunge at him, so far that it burst in an explosion of blood out his back.

The chaos was complete for an insane thirty seconds, as the nursemaid shielded Geneva and Henry against the capstan – whatever they had been planning to pay her, it was clearly not enough. Then Jennings rolled off to one side, managed to grasp his pistol as it skidded away on the boards, and – as Will leapt at him – shot him at point-blank range.

Will's leap turned into a stumble as he went down hard, clutching at the bloodied hole in his side. Jennings fumbled for another pistol, clearly intending to finish the job, but at that moment, a second gunshot stunned everyone, and they looked around madly for its source. Henry, leaning out around the capstan, had somehow managed to get his hands on a gun, aim it at Jennings through the melee, and score a glancing hit, tearing through his coat sleeve and leaving a bloody streak. Not a serious wound by any means, but still a wound, and Liam felt a sudden, blazing pride in his foster son. It was followed at once by even more consuming terror.

Will was down, still alive but losing blood fast, as Regina made for him, dragging him away, as she tore her skirt and struggled to stanch the wound. Jennings, for his part, seemed briefly thrown, raising a hand to touch the gash on his arm. "You," he said. "You _shot_ me."

Henry looked as if he wanted to answer defiantly, but he _was_ just an eleven-year-old lad, and this elder Henry was the most terrifying individual to ever walk God's green earth. Man and boy remained frozen, staring at each other, until Jennings looked away with a jerk, sweeping his loosened hair out of his eyes. "I'll let you choose, Liam," he said, almost pleasantly. "Which one dies first, which one keeps you company, and which one the crew gets for their sport."

"Go to hell." Liam took a better grip on his sweat-soaked sword. "Go to _hell."_

"There isn't one, if you ask me." Jennings turned to face him, one eye that unsettling pale color and the other more bloodshot than ever, half in the glow from the ship's lanterns and half in absolute darkness. "Nor heaven either. It's a queer sort of god that would permit men like me to flourish, don't you think, and men like you with your poor, useless _decency_ to wither? In fact if there _is_ a god, I rather suspect He is exactly bloody like the rest of us. And there's no devil either. Nothing beyond this life but the void. How unfortunate for all those addled sheep who live their lives under the thumb of tyrants, thinking it will get them a fine prize in the hereafter. There's only silence beyond. Only darkness. Hell is now. Hell is here."

Their gazes remained locked on each other for a moment longer, as they circled like lions at the kill. Jennings' hand went again to the hilt of his cutlass, and he drew the heavy blade with barely a flick of his wrist. "Come on, Liam," he said, almost tenderly, with the insane rictus of a smile. "Let's finish this."

That, at last, was the one thing Jennings had ever said that Liam could unequivocally agree with. They took half a step forward, half back, and then rushed at each other at once, Liam slamming his sword down in a vicious two-handed sweep. Jennings knocked it off contemptuously and flicked his at Liam's chest, as Liam had to move quickly to avoid it, driving down and keeping up the attack with all the fury of months, of years, of their entire sordid history. Of watching Jennings cut off Killian's hand, of hearing that he had sunk the _Blackbird_ and taken Emma and Miranda prisoner, of their fraught interview in Boston, of Regina trying to drug him, of Jennings grinning as Liam Junior stabbed his elder brother, of Liam then hearing what Jennings had done to him in turn. Of Jamaica, their captivity on the _Bathsheba,_ of fighting for their lives in the boat until Miranda brained him with the oar. Of hearing that Jennings had tortured Killian one more time, to this, to now, to the flashing, flaring, crashing edges of their swords, to the looming loss of everything, everyone, the rest of Liam's family that Jennings had not already managed to take from him. It gave him a wild strength beyond even desperation as they dueled, darting in and out among the helm and the deck and the splinters from the bombardment, over and under and side to side, low and high and everything in between, blades whirring and tumbling in lethal Catherine-wheels of steel. Sparks flew where the edges kissed, and Jennings bared his teeth. "Come on," he said again, in a serpent's hiss. "You wanted this, Jones. _Fight me._ "

Liam did not waste his breath in a reply, swinging his sword at Jennings so hard that when the other man twisted out of the way just in time, it bit several inches deep into the aft mast. He pulled it out and ducked Jennings' retaliatory blow, as neither the _Bathsheba's_ men nor the _Roger's_ made any move to interfere, mesmerized by the beauty and terror of the spectacle. It was understood, word unspoken, that this was Liam and Jennings' battle, and they alone had any right to finish it.

Liam could feel his shoulders – especially his bad one – starting to burn with the exertion, wearing down under the relentless, crashing force of Jennings' attacks, the point of the cutlass biting constantly for his face, for his heart, for his stomach, and he had to keep summoning up everything he had to turn it away. _I am losing._ He knew it with a terror to pierce his very soul. Whatever he had, everything he had, everything he was giving, it wasn't enough. Jennings was still stronger than him, and he was slowly but steadily gaining the upper hand. A blow slashed the side of Liam's sleeve, and then caught him briefly on the hip, sparking brief and breathtaking flares of pain in each. Then Jennings' knee came up, slammed Liam hard in the belly, and he lost hold of his sword, staggering backward. The next thing he knew, he was down.

There was a moment in which all the world held its breath, and then the bloody tip of Jennings' cutlass lifted Liam's chin. "Look up, Jones," he said. "Unless you want to meet your death cowering like a fucking craven."

Liam had nothing left, no trick up his sleeve, no clever move, no sleight of hand. He was breathless, disarmed, bad shoulder ablaze with agony, and his sword was six feet away. He'd never get to it before Jennings gutted him like a fish – he thought briefly and madly of deboning herrings on the _Pandora,_ of the smell when they came to Boston, of doing it for Killian, trying not to let him get hurt – and this, then, was it. Jennings would kill or at least seriously maim him, render him unable to interfere in his leisurely torture and disposal of the others. After this. After so long, after everything, Liam Jones had failed, and all he could do was watch the sword descend toward his face with almost hypnotic slowness. Smite him, and –

And then, for the third time, a gunshot cracked across the deck, taking everybody utterly off their guard. The sword veered off, as Jennings took a stumbling step backward, mildly perturbed more than anything. Looked down at the spreading crimson stain between his ribs, and then up at Regina, still holding the smoking pistol with both hands. "You," he said again. _"You_ shot me."

Regina didn't answer, white to the lips, as Jennings took a step toward her, reeled and had to steady himself, and in that moment, Liam lurched to his feet. Didn't think of anything but his sword, of reaching it, even as everything seemed, once more, to be moving impossibly slowly. Then it was there before him, and he was bending to grasp hold of it, and Jennings was turning toward him, and this was the only chance, this was all, this was everything. Liam swung it back with both hands, and drove it into Jennings with every bit of his strength.

He felt the other man convulse, even as their faces were close enough to kiss, as they stared directly into each other's eyes. Liam pulled the blade back, feeling it scraping against bone, not trusting that this was close to enough, and plunged it into Jennings again. This time he went down, pulling Liam with him, still trying to fumble for his own dagger, but couldn't summon the strength to draw it. Liam wrenched the blade out, yelled at Regina and the nursemaid, "DON'T LET THEM LOOK!" and had to hope that they turned Geneva and Henry's heads away, that they didn't see. There was no time to be sure. He took one final, almighty swing, and parted Captain Henry Jennings' head from his shoulders in an explosion of blood that was, in the torchlight, black as the very deepest hell. _Now. Here._ It was true, then. It was true.

Jennings' body folded slowly to its knees, still twitching, reaching for its weapons in a final act of defiance. Then it slammed into the deck, crimson rivers coursing from the stump of its neck, as the head rolled away. Even then, Liam raised the sword with both hands and drove it ferociously into the corpse's chest, stabbing once and then again, until there was nothing but a mangled mess. He was soaked in Jennings' blood, could taste it metallic on his lips, sweet as spring rain. Saw his dead half-brother's face before him, smiling sadly. _I'm sorry,_ Liam Junior whispered. _Forgive me, brother. Forgive me._

Liam stabbed again. _I'm sorry,_ he thought back, burning. _I'm sorry. I failed you and Killian. I couldn't protect you. Not enough. Not in time. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

It was finally Regina who had to get to him, to force the sword out of his hand, to grab his face and make him look at her, to make him surface from the depths of the drowning sea. "He's dead," she was saying, over and over, half in tears. "Liam. Do you hear me? He's dead."

Liam could not be sure. Jennings would rise again. He always rose, would always hunt them, even from beyond the grave. They would never be free, _he_ would never be free, of the possibility of it, of the return. Nonetheless, his fingers opened, and the sword fell from his hand to the sodden deck, alongside the butchered remnants of the Caribbean's most feared privateer. The mist had turned to a light rain, pattering Liam's face and the bloody deck, making the lanterns spit and hiss. His hands were shaking, and he could not make them stop.

Jennings' crew remained where they were, staring at the fallen body of their immortal, invulnerable, inexorable captain. Then, one by one at first and then faster, they began to back away, panicking and scrambling over the lines back to the _Bathsheba,_ none of them with any thought in their head but flight. They cut loose from the _Roger_ and took the wind, as Liam himself could not remotely summon up the wherewithal to give the order to pursue. He sank slowly to his knees alongside Jennings, thought about taking his ring back from the man's finger at last. How angry he had been to see it on Jennings' hand, the first time in Boston. Thought of how he had given it to Killian as a promise that they would be slaves no more. _The symbol of a lie._ Of his infernal bargain with Plouton, of the deaths of the entire _Benjamin Gunn,_ of the sinking and the sack and the sundering. _Cowering like a fucking craven._ Jennings' last words burned into him. _As I've told you so many times, we're all but the same._

Liam did not want it. He did not want it. He sat back on his knees, still in shock, as the rain kept falling. Then Regina was kneeling next to him, gripping his hand hard, trying to steady him, familiar enough with the darkness herself to know exactly what he was going through. "He's gone, Liam," she said again. "He's gone. It's done. It's done."

Liam didn't trust himself to agree. Instead he leaned to one side, was briefly and comprehensively sick, and remained crouched and gasping when it was over. Then he managed to look up at the _Roger's_ crewmen, who were all staring at him. "Get that thing off my ship," he managed. "Sew it in sailcloth. Three cannonballs. I want it away."

They scuttled to comply, hauling Jennings' corpse off the deck and retrieving the head; there was no point in the last stitch going through the nose, the traditional way of ensuring that a seaman was really dead before he was dumped, but they did it anyway. Others were tending to Will, who was in very precarious estate indeed. "We need to go back," Liam said, staring at his wound. "Back to Charlestown, he can't sail like this, he – "

"No," Will managed, coughing. "Don't you dare. Don't you dare go back to that fuckin' place on account of me, Liam. Fish out the ball and sew me up – one way or another – but we go to France. You know we can't turn back. We can't lose everything. Not now."

Liam didn't answer, couldn't bring himself to, even as he was academically aware that Will was right. Now that they had a wet nurse for Geneva, and now that the final battle with Jennings was done, they had to get out of here. They couldn't render all the sacrifices that Emma and Killian had made, trusting them with their children, in vain. They couldn't go back to Charlestown one more time, that transparently cursed and forsaken and burned place, already knowing what it had cost them. At best, they could tarry a few hours under cover of darkness, to see if Will pulled through or if he didn't, and then set out for the long Atlantic crossing at dawn. They could not turn away from what was before them. They could not look back.

Liam's grief was too deep and savage for words, twisting him in half until he was not sure he would ever be able to breathe properly again in his life, to stand up straight, to remember his name. He heard a splash as the crew tipped Jennings' body over the gunwale, watched it swirl and eddy in the tide rush, had a brief and horrible impression that it was trying to swim back to the ship. Then it dipped, once and then again, and slowly, finally, went under.

Dully, Liam knew that Miranda had to be sewn up and put overboard as well, that there was no way her body would keep for a six-week-long voyage, even if he might have wanted to grant her the dignity of a final resting place in France. Yet once again, he could not quite bring himself to it. He rinsed the blood off in the rain barrel, then turned to the nursemaid, intending to instruct her to get Geneva and Henry away from this horror. Instead, rather to his own confusion, he said very quietly, "Can I have my niece, please?"

The nursemaid – he had to ask her name, but not quite yet – looked startled, but did so, and Liam lifted the baby into his arms, still feeling a faint tremble in his fingers and momentarily afraid that he would drop her. She had exhausted herself with terror and somehow managed to fall asleep, and he felt tears spring to his eyes as he braced her against his shoulder, assuring himself that she was solid, still breathing, _alive._ Then, not knowing exactly what he was doing, only that he had to, he carried the tiny girl to her grandmother, and laid her gently on Miranda's chest.

"Liam – ?" Regina, who had gone to get the medicines she had unsuccessfully tried on Miranda earlier, and was now administering them to Will, looked up with a start. "What are you – ?"

He shook his head, holding up a hand. Kept staring at them, had a sense of a coin tossed in the air, flashing and spinning, spinning. On what side it would fall, and how, he had no notion. Life and death and life and death and death and life again. The price was paid. Oh God, it was paid.

For a moment, a few moments, still nothing. Geneva's small fist clutched the filthy fabric of Miranda's torn dress, and she slept on. Then, so faintly that Liam was sure he had imagined it, her body stirred ever so slightly. Up and down. As if riding on the wake of a slow-drawn breath.

Regina caught it as well, and stared. Neither of them moved, tense beyond words, waiting for it not to come again, until it did. And then, after the same nerve-wracking interval, a third.

There were many prayers Liam Jones could have uttered then, if he still believed in God, and yet, he did not know that he did. Too much had burned for that, too much had fallen, until he was not at all sure that Jennings was not right. Yet he stood there under the cold and empty stars, and saw what seemed no less than a miracle, and perhaps, for a stolen moment, he did. No way to say if it would last. No way to say if Miranda would wake again, or if Will would survive. If this was only the reprieve before they had to part ways for good, a brief spark of hope to make the final loss more crushing. But just now, that did not matter. Nothing else did.

Liam turned away, and straightened up, and faced his crew.

"Raise canvas," he said. "We sail for France."

* * *

Nearly all of the voyage back to Nassau was a blur. Emma did not want to believe that David Nolan's terrible news was right, that Flint and Miranda were dead, but she also knew that she had no luxury to pretend otherwise. On a coldly practical level, there was also no way to say what had happened to the _Walrus,_ and if they were down a third of their impromptu pirate fleet, it raised their already-stiff odds to all but impossible levels. They could still hope that David made it to Antigua without, say, being destroyed by Blackbeard, and delivered the charges and proof of Gold's treason, but that did them no good in the short term, and could just as well end up going nowhere. Emma had to fill her head with these logistics, determinedly occupy her thoughts and her time, or otherwise she would have to face the staggering reality of having lost both her daughter and her mother at once – as well as, in Flint, the remotely closest thing to a father she ever really remembered having. If she wept a single tear, the dam would break, and she could not let it. Not now. Not yet. Possibly not ever.

Killian could clearly tell that she was suffering, but he also seemed to sense her desperate need to keep herself together, and did not directly ask her how she was, all too well aware of the answer. As before, the _Whydah's_ crew did not require much attention or direction from them to sail the ship, but both of them kept stubbornly persisting at it anyway, as the only alternative was to sit and drown in their thoughts. Driven hard on the back of the trades, they managed to return in just a bit under two days, dearly hoping that Woodes Rogers had not managed to execute another catastrophe in even this comparatively short span of time. They had to take extreme care on the approach, to avoid being spotted by any wandering Navy ships, and finally made it back to their more or less sheltered anchorage on the leeward side of the island. There they found the _Jolie,_ still loaded with Vane's stolen Spanish gold, and a very nervous Rackham waiting for them.

"Flint's _dead?"_ was the first thing out of Jack's mouth, once they had acquainted him with the account of their most recent misfortunes. "Bugger me if I believe that. Any word of Charles?"

"No," Emma said tightly. "All Captain Nolan said was that Lord Peter Ashe had held Flint and Miranda prisoner, and that they were dead. We don't know what else happened, or where Vane is. We don't know if it's true, or what we'd do even if it wasn't."

"Fuck," Jack said, which nobody could argue with as a way to sum up the situation. "Well. That does leave us rather literally between a rock and Woodes Rogers, doesn't it? Not to mention that we still can't risk going far with the gold, if Charles would come back and find it missing."

Charles Vane's feelings about the safety of his treasure haul were, in Emma's opinion, the least of their concerns at the moment. "Did Sam and Lancelot go inland to the plantations? Make any headway on possibly recruiting slaves?"

"They did." A crease linked Rackham's brows. "Go to the plantations, that is. And haven't come back yet, in fact. So either they're doing so riotously well with volunteers that they can't handle them all at once, or something, somewhere, with a nearly innumerable possibility of potential causes, went regrettably sideways. Given the general state of our fortunes thus far, one would find no difficulty at all in wagering on the latter."

"Bloody hell." Killian raked his fingers through his hair, which was beginning to get rather long, tousled dark locks ruffling in the wind. "And Rogers? Still hanging pirates?"

"We sent a few scouts out. They say he's stopped for now, but they don't trust it." Jack sat down on the hatch cover next to Anne, who from her windblown appearance had been doing most of the scouting. "We're fairly sure that he still thinks the _Halifax_ made it safely off to Antigua to alert Gold to the situation, but either way, he is certain to be preparing some spectacular reprisal. That man does not like to lose, or to be humiliated, and over the past several days, we have done both. And Jennings is gone, that can't be good. Likely went after Vane, so. . ."

Killian and Emma absorbed this in communal grim silence. While on one hand it was always at least something of a relief to hear that Jennings was no longer in the immediate vicinity, they were all too aware of the damage he could do anywhere else he had gone. No immediate solution to their dilemmas had thence appeared to them, so they bid Jack and Anne good night and went back to the _Whydah,_ crawling into Sam's bed and staring at the ceiling. Both of them were exhausted to the bone, but sleep felt very far away. And as well, something else. Something that neither of them could quite put their finger on, but disturbed them further.

"Something's wrong," Emma said at last, sitting up. Her hair fell loose around her face, her heart pounding fast and short. "Geneva and Henry. They're in danger."

Killian had been having rather the same sense himself, with absolutely nothing rational to explain it, and had been hoping it was just an extension of the general feeling of doom which seemed to have fallen over them. He could feel something just as ominous and unexplainable about Liam, and did not want to countenance even the possibility of it being real, of what else they could still have left to lose. He sat up and put his arms around Emma, pulling her close, as if he could somehow shield her from a peril that neither of them could even properly name. A storm at sea? One of Gold's ships catching up to the _Jolly Roger?_ Something still worse? Whatever it was, it wrapped strangler's fingers around their hearts, pulling tighter and tighter, until neither of them thought they could stand it a moment longer – and then, as they were still holding each other as hard as they could, it broke over their heads like a crashing wave, washed into shore from the tumult of the tempest, fetching up on the sand among all the other flotsam and jetsam. They both gulped raw, ragged breaths as if coming up for air from the deepest of dives, and Emma clutched at his shirt. "Are they – ?"

"I don't know." Killian rested his chin on her hair, heart hammering. "I don't know what just happened. Only that. . . something did."

Emma made an inarticulate noise against his shoulder, tucked into his neck, as Killian tried to steady himself. He somehow thought he would know if it was wrong, if their family was dead, but then again, perhaps he wouldn't. He only had the sense of a great and powerful change, some fulcrum shifted, as if whatever the world had been a few hours before was no longer what it was now. After a few moments, he leaned down and kissed Emma's forehead. "Sleep if you can, love," he whispered. "I'm here."

She pressed herself closer, knuckles white with holding onto him, as he could finally glimpse the sheer agony beneath the fragile façade she had ever more tenuously been holding together. Then another breath shuddered out of her, and she settled almost bonelessly against him, their weary, battered bodies sinking into the comfort of the bed, the quiet of the night. There was some sort of peace, almost, as if in the wake of the storm passing, sweeping all clean. Killian Jones did not know what. He did not ask. All that mattered to him was that Emma Swan breathed.

Sam and Lancelot returned shortly before sunrise. Killian and Emma found this out when they were startled from a shallow sleep by the sound of the cabin door opening, and Sam ducked through, looking even more tired than them, clothes worn with dust and salt. Upon seeing them try to sit up, he firmly waved them down, shucked his boots and jacket, and crossed the floor to climb into bed with them, settling on Emma's other side so he and Killian could both hold her. They lay there in the silence of the pearly grey predawn, listening to the _Whydah_ creak softly beneath them, until Killian asked quietly, "What about the slaves?"

"I don't know." Sam blew a long strand of black hair out of his face. "Lancelot and I made it into a few plantations – barely made it out, in more than one case – and gave them our pitch, but we've had no miraculous uprising. Not that I can blame them. There is far too much at stake for them to risk it without complete assurance of success, and that, of course, is one thing we cannot give them. A few did seem interested, aye, but that will not make an army."

"Ah." Killian struggled to control his dismay, knowing that this had only been a slight possibility in the first place. "So. . . not much help to be expected from that quarter?"

"I wouldn't think so." Sam sighed. "We did everything we could, I swear."

"Of course you did. I'd never blame you for it, you know that."

Sam smiled at him over Emma's head, but his eyes remained drowned. He clearly did hold himself responsible, as if there was something else he could have done to make a difference in their fight, as if it would be his fault if he had not found it. After a moment, he said, "Did you hear anything about Flint and Miranda?"

Killian grimaced. "We. . . did."

Sam seemed to understand at once from the look on his face that whatever they had, it was nothing good. His lips went white, and he glanced away, clearly unable to press just yet for details. After a long pause he said, "We'll have to come up with something. Rogers is getting his feet under him, he's garrisoning Nassau to within an inch of its life, and the hangings will start again at any moment. With Flint or without him, we still have the _Jolie_ and the _Whydah._ Either we make another attack with those, or we find help elsewhere. Did you deliver the message about Gold to David, I'm guessing?"

"Aye. Who knows what comes of that, but we did." Killian wished it felt like more. "And the _Jolie_ still has Vane's gold on it, so if we take it into battle and it sinks – "

"We can't afford to keep it out of action just to serve as a treasury vault," Sam pointed out. "As well, between that and my own recent rather remarkable success, we have all the money we could possibly spend in several lifetimes. There are swords and sails for hire. Jennings and his scabrous bunch aren't the only mercenaries in the Caribbean. French _flibustiers,_ my old mate Olivier La Buse if we could find him, and for that matter, plenty in the colonies. I've been thinking about making a trip back to Massachusetts for a while. It's my old haunts up there, Williams and I know plenty of men willing to sail with us for a little coin, and there are no shortage of ships on Cape Cod. With just some of the treasure, I could get us an actual fleet."

"Could you make it there and back in time?" Killian asked, frowning. "Be at least a fortnight, even assuming the best weather. If Rogers moved on us before then – "

"The war won't be over in a fortnight," Sam said decidedly. "For better or worse."

"Aye, but – "

"We'll keep it in mind, eh?" Sam put a finger to his lips. "Have to do something."

Killian supposed this was true, and subsided as gracefully as he could, though still with a faint misgiving he could not quite wish away. The three of them slept for another few hours, and then woke up, put back on whatever bits of clothing they had taken off, and trudged topside. The day was fine and warm and clear, but their situation was growing increasingly urgent. Lancelot had returned to the _Jolie_ to relay the same news to Jack and Anne, that they could not count on any support from the slaves, and while their current spot was more or less out of the way of potential discovery by the English forces, it also meant they were doing exactly bugger-all of good. It sat well with nobody to keep hiding while the occupation grew stronger, and it was finally decided that Sam, Emma, and Killian would take the _Whydah_ up the coast, while Jack, Anne, and the _Jolie_ stayed behind to hold their position. The _Whydah_ was the faster and more maneuverable of the two, and while she did not run quite as many guns, she still could take anything the Navy felt like throwing at them. As well, everyone felt in need of a few straight answers.

They made their way cautiously up the eastern side of New Providence, sailing just in sight of land, double lookouts posted to warn of approach from any direction. Most of the day passed with nothing, and the three of them were just debating whether they could risk a closer venture to Nassau, when a shout went up from the forecastle. _"Sails!"_

They crowded to the rail, Sam and Killian clicked open their spyglasses at once, and stared – then stared again. "Christ," Killian said. "I don't believe it. Is that – is that the bloody _Walrus?"_

"Looks like it." Sam's face lit with a brief, fierce joy, as all of them felt their innards turn over at this merciful twist of fate at long last. None of them, however, expected this reunion to be pleasant, and they made as much sail as possible, hastening out to meet their battered compatriot, which looked rather literally to have been through hell. It was blackened and smoke-scarred, gunports still open, a stark and menacing death's head. When Sam shouted up at the deck, Killian found himself briefly wondering who – or rather what – was going to emerge. Didn't know that he was entirely ready to see it – to see, he greatly feared, himself. A man driven beyond all endurance and all restraint and any and all flicker of hope, a man in the darkest place of his life, and who saw no means of getting out. Who was not at all sure he should even bother.

The man who stepped onto the deck, therefore, bore a passing resemblance to James Flint, enough to be recognized as him, but who looked like nothing that Sam, Killian, or Emma had ever quite seen. He regarded them with no apparent interest or disinterest, gritted and bloodied and grim and raw as an open wound. Then he said, "You lot."

"Aye, it's us." Emma's relief to see him was plain, but she could also clearly tell by his face that half the news had, at least, been true. "You're. . . you're alive."

Flint snorted, as if to say that was debatable. His fists tightened white on the railing, as if stopping himself from breaking it only with a terrible effort of will. "Was I dead before?"

"We'd heard so." Killian looked up at the older man, sensing the pain and rage and heartbreak boiling off him as tangibly as poison. "Mate, what did – "

"Does it matter?" Flint's voice growled at the very edge of control. "What's happened on Nassau?"

"It. . . it, well. . ." Nothing but absolutely horrendous news all around, it seemed. As briefly as he could, Killian explained the circumstances, the blockade of the harbor and the ever-increasing grip of Woodes Rogers' war on the pirates, from pardons to punishments, to worse. He downplayed his own part in this transformation, noting only that Rogers and Jennings had unsuccessfully tried to make him talk, that Anne may have shot the governor in the course of the rescue attempt, and that Vane's fiery blitz of the Navy ships had made him even more sorely aggrieved. It was, in short, a spectacular clusterfuck.

Flint listened without speaking, a muscle going in his cheek. Then he glanced at the man standing to his side – it was, Killian was surprised and disquieted to see, John Silver, leaning on a crutch and not quite entirely restored from having his leg brutally hacked off in Jamaica, but still surviving, evidently. "You tell them," Flint ordered. "You're the fucking talker."

With that, clearly barely holding himself together, he whirled on his heel and vanished into the cabin, as it was left to Silver to elucidate the full extent of the past few weeks' catastrophes. He crossed to the _Whydah,_ as he did not want to shout over the decks of both ships, and that at least afforded them more privacy. Once they had retired to the cabin, he told them everything. In sum: Flint and Miranda had arrived in Charlestown, managed to obtain an audience with Ashe, and then confronted him with their knowledge of his treachery. Silver was unclear on the details, as only those three had been present, but it had exploded like a barrel of Greek fire. Miranda was shot, Flint had been taken prisoner, and held in preparation for public execution, until Vane arrived in the nick of time. The pair of them ripped Charlestown to shreds, Flint killed Ashe, and sailed off blindly, attacking the first ship he came across and killing everyone aboard, then taking the _Walrus_ into the heart of a monster storm. Blown far off course and set adrift in doldrums, they finally fetched on a remote island that was home to another settlement of Maroons, who had not been inclined to appreciate the invasion. It had taken a lot of work from both Flint and Silver, but they managed to talk themselves, and the entire crew, out of being killed. As a matter of fact, they had also proposed an alliance, and several members of the colony were presently on board, under the leadership of their chieftainess' daughter, Madi.

This unexpected piece of moderately hopeful news, after the disappointment of recruiting the slaves of New Providence, briefly plucked up sorely downtrodden spirits, and the sight of Sam bolstered the case; these Maroons were in contact with their brethren on the island led by Poseidon, and knew of his reputation as a friend to their kind. It was plain, however, that none of them trusted the other pirates as far as they could throw them, and that Flint's mental state was, to say the least, extremely precarious. Silver said he had been having nightmares and terrors and worse, and that while he had pulled himself together sufficiently to deal with the Maroons, that was only a flimsy bandage on a gaping heart wound. "Not that he's said so. He can't. But I think the poor bastard would rather be dead, and with Miranda, than try to live without her."

At that, Emma flinched as if she had been the one shot. She had been hanging for dear life onto Killian's hand during this entire story, and this final confirmation that Miranda was dead seemed to snap her spine. She searched Silver's face as if desperate for him to tell her that there was a mistake, but he only looked down, uncharacteristically grim and serious. A monstrous silence reigned over all of them, until at last Silver turned to Sam. "On the ship we took," he said, "there was, as it happens, a letter for you. Flint didn't know, and didn't care – he shot both the captain and his wife, and most of the crew. I have it, if you want it."

"A letter for me?" Sam was clearly surprised, and more than slightly wary. "Who'd risk their skin writing to a convicted pirate captain?"

"No idea. But the ship's log said she was out of Boston, and if I recall, you have a number of acquaintances there. Presumably one of them heard that the ship was making for the West Indies, figured that would be close enough for it to somehow find its way to you, and got it aboard."

Sam still looked wary, but nodded once and held out his hand, as Silver fished the battered letter from his jacket. Killian expected him to name his price, as this man so rarely traded valuable information (or anything, really) without a favor obtained in return, but for once, Silver simply gave it over. Sam slit the seal, unfolded it, and read it through. Then without a word, he leaned forward, put his head in his hands, and did not move.

"Sam?" Startled from her own grief by this unexpected reaction, Emma frowned at him. "Sam, are you all right?"

"Hey." Killian, equally concerned, leaned over. "Sam. Sam, what is it?"

Sam still did not stir for another long moment. Neither Killian nor Emma wanted to read what was clearly a most upsetting and personal letter without his permission, and they were also not sure that they wanted Silver privy to the information, but as he was the one who had brought it, they could hardly throw him peremptorily out on the spot. The silence remained acute. Then Sam straightened up and said, "Those fucking Puritan _bastards."_

"What – ?"

"Mariah." The word was punched out of Sam as if at a blow. "Mariah Hallett, remember her? My lass in Eastham, in Massachusetts, with the fucking father who wouldn't let us be married? She – she was. . ." He looked down at the table, gripping it hard. "She fell with child, evidently, after my visit there last summer, the one where I met you, Emma, and took you aboard the _Whydah._ But it. . . it was born too early. In a fucking stable, where Mariah had to take refuge after her most-holy parents threw her out of the house. It is – was – a boy. A lad. He lived only a few hours."

"Jesus Christ." Killian felt punched himself. "Sam. Jesus. I'm so sorry."

"After all I did for them." Sam rocked back in his chair, eyes unseeing. "After all the money I gave them, the disputes I settled, the friends I made along Cape Cod, the time I spent there – the fine folk of Eastham shunned Mariah, threw her in jail for unlawful fornication outside of marriage, and would not even let her bury her son – _our_ son – properly. I'm surprised they didn't burn her at the fucking stake, unless they're saving that for the grand finale. Jesus. Fuck those people. _Fuck_ them!"

"Sam. . ." Emma reached out, face crumpled with pain, trying to put her hand over his, but he jerked it back. "Sam, I. . ."

He didn't answer, continuing to stare fixedly at nothing, as the horrible irony and tragedy of it hit both of them broadside: that Sam had given up so much, fought so hard, been so steadfast and so generous in so many ways so that Killian and Emma's child could live, that Geneva Elizabeth Jones had even had a chance to be born, and as a result, he had lost his own, never even knowing it until it was too late. They couldn't ask him if he was angry, if he regretted it, if he wished he had done differently, because either way, it would be too unbearable. For once, even Silver had nothing to say, tactfully pretending not to be there, as it seemed as if the dragon of loss and tragedy would spare no one from the grip of its jaws. First Flint with Miranda, and now Sam with Mariah and their unnamed son, and Killian and Emma with whatever they had endured with their own missing children last night. On and on, inexorable.

"I have to go," Sam said at last, roughly. "I'll take my treasure, I'll try to recruit men and ships for the cause, as I was planning earlier. But I have to go. I have to at least apologize to Mariah, even if she wants nothing to do with me ever again. I wouldn't blame her. But I – Jesus. I can't leave it like this. _Jesus."_

Killian and Emma looked at each other, then back at him, unable to deny him. They knew if it was either of them, they would have been desperate to do the same thing, even as their own hearts broke with the need to try to put it right for him, when it was so far beyond their power to do. Sam had already faced so much and barely come through it – but he had, he _had,_ he was somehow still struggling forward, the kindest and bravest and best of them, even if he could no longer believe in it himself. He did not deserve this. He did not deserve any of it.

"All right," Killian said at last, quietly. "If you wanted just to go to see her, and to hell with trying to recruit reinforcements, I'm sure nobody would blame you. Or – "

"No," Sam said. "I made a promise to you, that I'd fight with you until the war was done. It's not. And if anything good can come out of this, anything at fucking all, then I'd be twice as much a fool to let it slip away. I'm doing it."

Killian looked at him wordlessly. "Sam," he said at last, very quietly. "I love you. We love you. Come back to us, all right?"

Sam considered him, then nodded once. "I'll leave Charlie," he said to Emma. "Whatever happens in Massachusetts, I don't want you to have to worry about your brother too, on top of everything else. If you two want to take him and return with Mr. Silver here to the _Walrus,_ I intend to leave at once. No point in wasting time."

* * *

The _Whydah_ set sail at twilight. After he had bid farewell to Killian and Emma with a long hug and a quick kiss for each, doing a better job of holding himself together for their benefit than he at all felt, Sam ordered the canvas raised and the course charted, grateful for the distraction of the work. He did not blame them, as he loved them too much and knew it was not their fault, that they had had no more pleasant fate in having to give Geneva up with no certainty of ever seeing her again. Nonetheless, he wanted to be away from them. He already had the whole of the voyage to be alone with his turbulent thoughts, so perhaps it was jumping the gun a bit to get started just now, but he couldn't stop himself. Jesus. Whenever he stopped being stunned, it was likely to hurt even more. Or worse, it wouldn't.

Sam had loved Mariah, as he loved most people when he came to know them, and he still had meant to go back for her when the war was over, even though her father was not likely to have changed his opinions at all on the suitability of his nice Puritan daughter marrying a pirate. But at the same time, Sam could not have given up either Killian or Emma, or Flint and Miranda, in the different ways that all of them mattered to him – Miranda, at any rate, seemed to have been settled for him – and that he would have been all right if he had not, in fact, seen Mariah again. That guilt, that knowledge, was almost worse than the grief. That she had given up so much for him, that he had taken her presence and her love and her ability to be returned to whenever convenient for granted, and he had done this to her as a result. With the best of intentions, and with his own cursed inability not to connect too deeply with this, with everyone, he was the person who bore the most responsibility for Mariah Hallett's current predicament, not the Puritans. They might have thrown her from her home, forced her to give birth in a stable only to see her child die, and imprisoned her for fornication and carnality, but Sam was the one who had left her there.

They sailed all night and all the next day without a halt, changing the crew shifts and taking advantage of a favorable wind. It was just over a thousand nautical miles from Nassau to Boston, and while they did not have the trades to speed things up, that was, strictly reckoned, not much further than the distance between Antigua and Jamaica in the Caribbean. It still worked out to a journey of at least a week in most cases, but then, most merchants and traders did not sail as if the Devil was after them, flying every scrap of canvas for as long as they could and running their crew to the brink of collapse from exhaustion. Sam worked harder than all of them, trying to shut up his yammering head. Whenever he did snatch a few winks of sleep, Hume had a disturbing tendency to appear in his dreams.

It was the morning of the fifth day out when the waters began looking somewhat familiar, and Sam reckoned they had to be close to the Nantucket Shoals, which was a tricky and dangerous bit of ocean that took careful negotiation. Numerous ships had been wrecked here, and he did not intend to add his name to the list. On the other hand, Nantucket was only about thirty miles south of Cape Cod, and if the weather held up, they could be there by nightfall.

Here, the _Whydah_ happened across an apparent happy stroke of luck, in the form of a two-masted ship that surrendered quickly after a warning shot across the bow: the _Mary Anne,_ bound from Boston to New York with a cargo of wine. Sam knew that he had been running his crew ragged, and that they deserved a spot of reward for all their exertion, so he ordered the spoils divided up and the drink passed around. For the time being, they were limited to the five bottles in the captain's cabin, as the _Mary Anne's_ anchor cables barred access to the hold, so they drew her alongside, took her into tow, and decided to make full investigation of her delights later.

Sam checked the charts again and took a heading. He reckoned they could make it to Provincetown, the largest settlement of any size on the Cape, as the _Whydah_ could stand to take on fresh supplies after all her venturing, and it was not far to Eastham from there. He sent a small crew over to take command of the _Mary Anne,_ and they set out again.

For the next few hours, the weather was miraculously cooperative, the seas gentle and the wind steady, and they made good time north, despite the contrary currents from the shoals. Around three in the afternoon, however, one of those pernicious New England sea fogs arrived from nowhere and dropped over them like a ghostly shroud, so that the _Whydah_ and her captive lost sight of each other at more than a few lengths apart. Sam ordered them to halt, checking the mercury in the glass. It had held steady earlier, but now it was falling, and fast.

"Fuck," Sam muttered to himself, already regretting his decision to be so munificent in taking the _Mary Anne_ in tow. He had barely started to chew over what to do, however, when they were interrupted by a _third_ ship sailing into the middle of things: a small trading sloop, the _Fisher,_ with a captain who promised he knew the area well, and would help guide them around the hook of the Cape to Provincetown. Whether he felt this was preferable to being robbed by pirates was unclear, but no need to look a gift horse in the mouth.

A few hours later, however, Sam was cursing his rash capture of the _Mary Anne_ more than ever. It was now fully dark, the wind and weather were getting worse, and the wine-sozzled eight men of his crew aboard the prize had caused her to fall well behind, obliging him to once more slow up and wait. "Hey, you lazy sons of whores!" he yelled, having to raise his voice considerably over the crash and thunder of the waves. "Sail the bloody ship, _then_ drink!"

It was hard to see what, if any, response this evoked, and Sam felt a brief, unpleasant flicker of fear. The wind was shifting on them, coming from south by southeast, and what with the seas as high as they were, that meant they were being shoved hard toward the uncharted coast of Cape Cod, which was not the friendliest of places in the best of times. As well, the mercury was still plunging. _This is not good._ Sam had idly wondered if the captains of the _Mary Anne_ and the _Fisher_ might be interested in donating their vessels to the pirate cause, but at this rate, he was going to be lucky to keep any of them afloat. He could have made more speed in the _Whydah,_ gotten out and away, but he was hampered by the need to keep his captured ships, and the men on each, together in the rising storm. _I'm not leaving them behind._

By ten at night, the long-brewing gale had turned nasty. Rain pounded the deck and the sheets, lashing sideways, and bolts of lightning as bright as Zeus' heavenly darts scalded the ink-black sky, followed by booms of thunder that rattled Sam's teeth in his head. The seas kept climbing, waves twenty or thirty feet, so that despite all his best intentions, he had lost sight of the _Mary Anne_ and the _Fisher_ altogether. Huge, violent blasts of frothing white spray kept breaking over the deck and in towering sheets of spray at the foot of the – cliffs?

Oh, fucking hell.

In the completest of all imaginable ironies, Sam realized all at once that he knew exactly where he was: precisely where he had meant to go, the village of Eastham on Cape Cod, the place where he had drawn Jennings away from Boston so Flint could have a go at rescuing the captives, the place where he met Emma for the first time and they became fast friends. The raging wind and water had driven them here, down the coast and toward the high sea cliffs that bracketed each side of the beach. If they could make it there, there might be some hope of a safe landing, though it would involve deliberately running the _Whydah_ aground. If not –

Sam shook his soaking hair out of his face, spinning around on the deck. They were being tossed and slammed like a spoiled giant's plaything, and there was only one possibility of salvation that he could see. "HEY!" he bellowed, yelling at the top of his lungs and still barely heard over the screaming madness. "LOWER THE ANCHORS!"

His men slipped and struggled toward the capstan, fighting the bucking braces with all their might to get the half-ton anchors free. The _Whydah's_ bow pitched and plunged into the trough of a seemingly endless wave, and Sam had a moment to be desperately grateful that he had not brought Charlie Swan along. He did not fancy explaining this to Emma if – _when,_ damn it, _when –_ they made it back to Nassau.

There was another splash as the anchors went under and their lines paid out, jerking and catching them to a croaking, straining halt. There was a moment of almost perfect silence and stillness in the heart of the storm, when they did not budge at all, locked in place as the ocean continued to throw its fit to every side. For that time, just that alone, Sam breathed.

Then he felt a jerk. Then another one. And then another, and that one did not stop. The anchors were dragging. They were on a direct collision course with the cliffs whether they liked it or not, and picking up speed with every writhe and thrash of the sea.

"CUT THE CABLES!" There was only one chance left, one small hope. They were currently being bashed backwards, stern-first, and if they could get swung around and go aground bow-first, there was some small hope of keeping the _Whydah_ intact, of giving the men enough chance to swim for it. "WE'RE GOING ASHORE, LADS, HANG ON!"

Sam grabbed an axe with the others and hacked madly at the straining cables, fighting the sodden hemp with every blow, until finally they split and parted. Then he whirled on the helmsman. "TURN HER! _TURN HER!"_

The helmsman hauled on the wheel with all his strength, trying to fight the _Whydah_ through the slamming, screaming, snarling tempest. But they weren't turning. They kept plunging, helpless as a leaf on the wind, toward the mighty cliffs of Eastham, faster and faster, heading in stern-first and completely out of control. Sails tore loose, ropes snapped, and Sam could hear the sound of cannon breaking their mounts belowdecks and rolling like juggernauts. The ship tipped violently as the cargo in its heavy-laden hold broke loose, all the spoils of their weeks of wildly successful plundering, all the treasure he meant to use to purchase reinforcements for their cause. There was only this, now. Only inevitability.

There was no way to brace for it. One moment the cliffs were looming directly overhead, and the next, the mountainous waves slammed the _Whydah_ into them with a force great enough to launch men clean off the deck and rigging and into the howling sea like bullets. Sam felt something snap in his shoulder, a blazing pain raced up it, and then he was engulfed in the blackness of seething saltwater to every side. He thrashed at it with his good hand, kicking and swimming as hard as he could, utterly unaware which way was up, until he broke the surface seemingly by chance. The deck of the _Whydah_ was there, yes, but now it was over his head. It had no bloody business being over his head.

Sam sucked a desperate breath, clawing at the slick wood, then twisted out of the way in the barest nick of time as a cannon fell out of the next wave and crushed the man next to him into bloody pulp. Jesus, _Jesus,_ no, not the _Whydah,_ not his beautiful girl. Not his treasure, not his crew, not this, not this. He had meant to go back to Mariah and beg forgiveness for his sins, and yet by the looks of things, he had not started to be appropriately punished for them. He could see Robert Gold in his head, and Josiah fucking Hume, and all the leering faces watching him being marched to the gallows on Antigua. Whatever great cosmic debt he had incurred to the universe for his survival then, it seemed about to be paid in full.

Dimly, Sam heard an almighty, shattering crack, and twisted his head around just in time to see the _Whydah's_ mainmast split, plummeting into the frothing abyss of whitewater and taking the full rig of its sails with it. The hull couldn't be far behind. The ship was barely recognizable as a ship, pounded into matchwood by the unforgiving might of the tempest, and Sam realized, in a very calm way, that he was about to die.

Very well, then. He did not want to die thinking about Gold and Hume and the sight of Robin Locksley dead in his arms, of grief and pain and darkness. He wanted to die thinking of Emma Swan's smile, and Killian Jones's strength, and the night he had kissed James Flint and Miranda Barlow and taken them to bed to breathe for the first time in ten years. He wanted to die thinking of Mariah Hallett, who had loved him despite the terrible injustice he had done to her, and he wanted to die thinking of a clear and perfect night under the Caribbean stars, and rum on a beach with his friends, with his family. He wanted to think of little Geneva Elizabeth Jones, and even her stubborn uncle Liam, and David Nolan. He wanted to think of home, and his sisters. Remembered their kisses and their tears as he left their poor farm in Hittisleigh, in rural Devonshire, a boy from nowhere who meant to be a man that everyone would know, and told them that he was going to make his fortune.

Another wave slammed him down, down and down, such a long way down, into the blackness of the undertow, and the crushing force of the submerged boulders. Sam was aware of the pain, but only distantly. He was not coming up this time, he knew, and he felt his air begin to run out, his mouth fill with salt and sand. He breathed one last time, and only water rushed into his lungs. But in his head, brilliant as a burning star until it began to fade, until all the lights went out, he was air, and sun, and fire, and there was no defeat, no death, no sundering. Only him, and the darkness that moved over the face of the deep, and the soft arms of the sea.


	39. XXXIX

**-XXXIX-**

The door of the _Walrus'_ cabin stood just ajar, laying a thin track of lantern light a few feet inside, where it caught short against the total darkness. No lamps or candles had been lit, and nothing stirred within, like the empty lair of a wolf gone out to hunt. Or perhaps the wolf had been mortally wounded, retreated to lie down in the dark and wait to die, too bitten and battered by the combat to think of returning, even as it burned to destroy any and every challenger, everything in its way. But just now, it did not know how. Did not know anything except the utter, unbearable desire for oblivion, and even that remained elusive.

Emma hesitated for a long moment, not sure if she wanted to go in or not. But it was not much of a true dilemma, as she could not be anywhere else just now. Miranda had told her once, in Boston, that she always put everyone else before herself, always thought of their needs first, always sacrificed whatever it took to save them. And while Emma was so rarely confident of her own ability to actually do so, she also knew it was the one thing – perhaps the only thing, in her mind – that was good about her, that was right, that was true. She was heartbroken and struggling with her own grief over Miranda, but there was still someone who was more so, who had even fewer places to turn for solace than she did, who was perhaps the only other person who understood the true depths of what was gone. As well, Miranda would have wanted it. _She always wanted us to get along. She always wanted more for us. For everyone._

Emma steadied herself, then pushed the door further open, slipping inside and setting it quietly closed behind her. The cabin looked like chaos, things thrown and the table overturned, the precious books scattered on the floor and papers and charts and quills sliding over the boards. Still no movement. The bed was empty, as was the chair. Was she mistaken, and he –

She took another step, and almost tripped over Flint. He was hunched in the corner, arms resting loosely on his knees, unmoving, unseeing, staring at nothing, as if he had wept and raged himself out and turned only to ash and dust. Emma had never seen him like this before, not when Flint's energy and ambition and initiative burned as brightly as his redhead temper, when he always had another plan, another idea, another cunning plot to overthrow his enemies and rise triumphant. He looked like a statue, barely seeming to notice her entrance, until he finally, very slowly, turned his head and raised bloodshot green eyes to hers. More wearily than anything, as if he couldn't even find the strength for anger, he mumbled, "The fuck are you doing here?"

"I just. . ." There was no easy answer. She figured he had likely had enough already, but a bit more couldn't hurt, and handed him Killian's rum flask, which he had supplied her with when she told him she was going to try to talk to Flint. "I thought you could use some company."

Flint snorted bitterly, but accepted the flask, unscrewing the top and gulping down half of it at a go. He wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand, scattering droplets from his untrimmed beard. "I'll keep company with this."

"I meant real company." Emma paused, then slid down next to him, feeling her own knees give a little as she did. They sat with their backs against the wall, the _Walrus_ rocking gently beneath them on the nighttime sea, as a heavy silence reigned over them. At last she said, very quietly, "You know I feel the same way as you do. About Miranda."

"I doubt that." A muscle worked in Flint's cheek.

"About losing her." Emma felt her own voice waver as she said it, and almost wished she hadn't, as Flint looked as if he'd been hit again by something heavy. Ordinarily she would have reached out to offer a comforting hand, but she wasn't sure he wouldn't bite hers off. "The first time we met. When you and the men attacked the ship I was on. Why did – why did you think I might fetch a ransom? I couldn't have been much. I was just a maidservant."

Flint looked surprised that she would even ask. He took another slug of rum. "It was a shit prize anyway," he said, after a moment. "A hold of uncured skins, a few bronze pennies, and barrels of turpentine and tar. Hardly the riches of Croesus. We needed to make something from our effort."

"There were other passengers. The captain."

"I shot the captain." Flint finished off the rum.

Emma wryly supposed that he had. Remembered fighting Billy, thinking he was going to kill her, that she would die and leave Charlie and Henry alone, and how frightened she had been, even more, when he didn't. Marched her up to the deck still awash in gunsmoke, grapnels tumbling from the railings where the _Walrus'_ motley crew had swarmed aboard, and her first sight of Flint, striding through the chaos and barking orders. While Billy was the one to cop to the fact that she might be worth something in ransom, she would never have lived to make Nassau if Flint had not agreed. He might not relish killing a defenseless young woman, but he would have, if he judged it more profitable or pragmatic. She realized, now, that she had never known why he decided to keep her alive even before she met Miranda, before their unexpected bond played a part in Flint agreeing to take her on as apprentice, and she wanted the answer. "Why?" she said again, just as quietly but with undeniable force. "Why did you spare me?"

His mouth twitched again. It was far too forbidding to be a smile, and too pained to be a grimace. "You looked like you were worth something."

It was Emma's turn to flinch. Knowing Flint, he probably meant in money, but that was still more than she had heard from almost anyone else. Her parents might have thought so, but they had died. Charlie was still too young to be anything except another responsibility for her. Leopold and Eva White had been kind in their way, but she was always and ever their servant, and their charity did not extend to keeping her on when they discovered the scandal of her pregnancy with Henry. Neal Cassidy – she did not want to think about Neal. For Walsh, she was a glorified housekeeper and bedwarmer. If this was so, James Flint, of all the bloody people, might have been the first individual in her then-twenty-one years of life to think that she was valuable in any way, and that both tore at her and touched her beyond words. Because of that, she had met Miranda, met Killian and Liam, met Sam, provided for Charlie and Henry, had Geneva, built this small but desperately loved little family of hers, even if it was awash in danger and uncertainty and death. Will, Jack, Anne, Billy, even Regina, all the people who had come to matter to her, and for whom she was still fighting. Finally she said only, "Thank you."

Whatever response Flint had expected, it did not seem to be that one. One gingery eyebrow jumped, but he didn't answer, muscle working still harder in his jaw. Then he got up, searched among the ruins of the cabin for another bottle of rum, and pried the seal off, sitting back down and draining a sizeable quantity of it. "Fat lot of good it did us," he said at length. "Both of us."

"It did." Emma's heart hurt, hurt beyond belief or breath or any notion of where the ease might ever come from, but she did not regret it. Did not regret any of it, or them. "It did."

Flint looked at her bleakly, as if to say that this morbid optimism was all well and good, but he could not comprehend this view of the situation, himself. He still seemed to be thinking about ordering her out so he could be alone with his misery, but instead he said, "So why were you sailing back to England? Leaving the boys in the Americas, returning to a place you couldn't have many good memories of, when certainly there was other employment where you were. Even if not – especially not – high seas piracy. Get a position in some other rich fuck's household. It wouldn't have been hard. Why England? That never made sense to me."

"I. . ." Emma looked down at her hands. She had likewise never spoken this aloud, never given it form. Even Miranda had never asked, and she felt an almost unbearable, searing pain of missing her. "I. . . I was running. Leopold and Eva had put me out. Walsh was dead. I had nothing left, nowhere to go. I had an idea that I would go back to England and find that I had missed it, that there was something I had left behind when I emigrated with Charlie. That it was home, just because I was born there, and I had to get back to it somehow. That I would find what I needed, and bring the boys back to join me when they were a little older. That I could care for them from afar, but that I . . . I'd be alone, I'd only have to look out for myself. It. . . seemed easier."

"Aye." Flint blew out a slow, pained breath. "So it does."

"But of course, I didn't," Emma said quietly. "Get there. England. And I didn't miss it, either. The feeling that I wanted to have then – it's what I have now, when I think about Miranda, and Sam being away, and not knowing where Liam and Regina and the children are, and everything else. I can't bring any of them back. I would do it in an instant if I could, I would go down to hell and get them out if I had to. But I can't. And the war's not. . . not over."

"Fucking tell me about it." Flint contemplated the rum bottle, then set it aside. "Silver and I spent days talking the Maroons out of killing us and the men, and now we have some of them here with us. You saw them. We know there's another battle for Nassau ahead. Woodes Rogers has a death grip on the place, Robert Gold can't be far behind, Benjamin _fucking_ Hornigold is doubtless lurking traitorously nearby as well, all the godforsaken lot of them. Just set the whole island afire. Might smoke out the rats."

"Sam went to Massachusetts. Meant to bring back recruits, mercenaries, gentlemen of fortune. Swords and ships. He has plenty of treasure from his own successes, he'll find takers."

"How fast?" Flint stretched his legs out slowly, grimacing. "And what was in that letter?"

Emma was startled. "Silver didn't think you knew about it."

"Silver's an idiot." Flint paused. "He's had his uses recently, I'll admit. But still an idiot."

"He's not, you know," Emma said. "He's just like you. And if you two worked together to bring the Maroons around, if he – "

"He's – tried, I suppose." Flint's voice caught and roughened. "To do what he. . . what he can. But I never know if that's because he actually bloody cares a whit, or because he's saving it up to use lucratively for advantage later."

Emma was tempted to remark that the exact same quandary often obtained with Flint, but this was not the time to rub salt in old wounds, not when she was trying to comfort him. Instead, she acquainted Flint briefly with the contents of the letter, of Mariah Hallett's tragic situation in Cape Cod, and how Sam had felt obliged to depart at once, to do whatever he could to remedy it. Flint made no comment, except when she had finished. "Seems fate is after the lot of us with a vengeance, doesn't it? The monsters on their maps, the villains in their fairytales. Getting what we fucking deserve, is that it? The scourge of the pirates, struck down at last. Civilization and harmony restored. Is this what qualifies as a happy ending?"

"I'd hope not." Emma felt in need of some of the rum herself, so she plucked it from Flint's unresisting hand and took a sip. She felt it burn all the way down, settle in her stomach like a small blazing ember, and set the bottle on the floor. "We think we managed to stop Rogers from getting word to Gold in Antigua – there was a ship, the _Halifax,_ we. . . we dealt with her. And sent David Nolan with a letter about Gold's treason, so there might still be time to catch them off guard. We have the _Jolie_ and the _Walrus,_ and whatever reinforcements Sam returns with, as well as then the _Whydah_. Do you know where Vane went, after. . . after?"

"I never know what the fuck Vane's doing. I'm still barely sure why he didn't just let me die, except that he hates the bastards just as much as I do – I'll give him that, and only that." Flint's lips tightened. "Is it true that all his Spanish treasure is aboard the _Jolie_ with bloody Jack Rackham? I wonder if there's some way to maneuver with that. Spain must be holding Rogers' feet to the fire agitating for its return. If we let him know that we had it – "

"What?" Emma was surprised, though not terribly, that Flint would conjure a plan that involved depriving Vane of all his hard-stolen gold – even if Vane himself had just rescued him in Charlestown. "You'd negotiate with Rogers?"

"No," Flint said. "I would not negotiate with Rogers. I'd set up the appearance of doing that, let him think there was a chance of retrieving the stash, and then shoot him, Hornigold, and everyone else I could in the fucking head."

Brutal as it was, Emma could not argue in the broad strokes with the efficacy of this plan, and she knew Flint better than to think he would want any kind of peaceable or bloodless solution after he had just lost Miranda, not with the rage and grief that burned unquenchably, unbearably within him. She could not deny that she wanted Rogers to pay for what he had done to Killian, that she might not mind seeing him shot properly after Anne had almost, but not quite, pulled it off the first time, but she also knew that he was just as dangerous when backed into a corner as was Flint himself. That much had already become clear from their short and regrettable acquaintance. They were also still wagering quite a bit on Sam being able to recruit help in Massachusetts, and David Nolan delivering the charges against Gold. Vane and Blackbeard might turn up in time to join an assault, or they might not.

"Rogers still holds the harbor and all of Nassau," she said instead. "He's weakened, but he's not dislodged, and he has the tactical advantage in every way that matters. He has no incentive to discuss terms at all with just two pirate vessels. We'd have to let him know we have the Spanish gold right away, and we can't afford to wait until Vane comes back. And since it _is_ his loot – "

"What, did you think we had to politely ask his permission?" Flint's mouth twisted viciously. "It's not our fault Vane's gone again. I'm not intending to hand the gold over anyway. And do we even have a way in at all? Rogers is a – "

"Yes," Emma said heavily. "Eleanor."

That caught Flint by surprise. _"Eleanor?"_

"Yes. She's. . . she's Rogers' lover, she's working with him to provide intelligence on Nassau and help establish English control over the island. She wanted me and Killian to make a bargain with him before. We. . . didn't. But if we could set up a meeting – "

Flint did not answer, still chewing over the news of Eleanor's desertion and betrayal. They had been close, had worked together for a long time, and he must have recognized something of himself in her, in her cutthroat determination to survive and overcome no matter the cost, no matter who had to be trampled underfoot. "Eleanor Guthrie turned from the fierce fence of the pirate empire to Woodes Rogers' devoted little helpmeet and proper English lady," he said at last, voice quiet but scathing. "Wonders truly do never cease."

"I don't know why either." Emma rubbed her eyes. "I think she loves the idea of ruling Nassau more than anything or anyone, and she'll ally herself with whoever seems to be the best chance of achieving that goal. It doesn't matter if it's under the black flag or the Union Jack. Either way. We could pull it off, possibly, but once we pull this gambit, we need to have the firepower ready to back it up, if Rogers goes for the bait. And I don't know if the _Jolie_ and the _Walrus_ alone can supply that. There are still at least six Navy frigates left. Those are. . . long odds."

"Well." Flint's mouth went even grimmer, but the world's most terrifying not-smile tugged at the edges. "Who says they have to know the truth?"

Emma looked at him, startled. "What do you mean?"

Flint paused, then slowly, painfully hauled himself to his feet, a phoenix rising once more, somehow, from the ashes. "Where the fuck," he said, "are Hook and Silver?"

The answer was: not far away, as Killian had doubtless been waiting anxiously for Emma to return, and Silver – well, who knew what he was up to, but both of them were rounded up fairly expeditiously. Flint heaved the table upright, looking as if this was far more effort than he felt like going to, but somehow compelled. The four of them sat down, though the conversation was far from bounteous. Then, since Flint did not appear inclined to be the first to broach the silence, Emma did instead. Explained their plan to bluff Rogers into a fatal miscalculation by dangling the lure of the Spanish treasure, and give them a shot at launching a surprise attack on Nassau. The difficulties of this plan were numerous and obvious, and the hard details were, to say the least, in the drawing-board stage. But it was better than nothing. Not by much, but still.

"So the main problem would be getting Rogers to believe that we had a strong enough position that he had something to lose if he didn't take up our offer," Killian said, having as usual grasped the essentials without the need for much explanation. "Which, with just two ships, we don't currently have. I am sensing, then, that this would be where Mr. Silver enters the picture?"

Silver smiled faintly. "See. We're finally becoming friends after all."

Killian looked as if he very much doubted this, but wanted to stay focused. "You could," he said. "Convince them otherwise. About our numbers. Our strength. Our threat. Couldn't you?"

"I'm not a Cheapside street magician," Silver pointed out. "I can't spin something entirely out of nothing. As well, you said the tale is that Flint's dead. Nobody's going to be in haste to put their necks on the line for a dead man, especially if Rogers has been so liberal with applying nooses to them already. That, though. . . that does give us something. As if the world tried as hard as it could to kill him in Charlestown, and failed. As if you are their own and especial monster. There's power in that. Possibility. That, now. We could make something from that."

Flint regarded him balefully, but once again, there was no real heat or conviction or hatred in it. "So what? I sail up and ask who wants to join the cause?"

"You?" Silver sounded surprised. "No. The dead man never announces his own return. As Hook said, that would be my job. Indeed, since my leg was hacked off, I daresay talking is all the use I am now. Certainly not in any actual fighting. I can create the legend of the dread Captain Flint, returned from the grave, with an army of slaves and pirates and free men at his back, but I can't guarantee it would take root. However many redcoats Rogers has garrisoned on Nassau, there are still more of us – but they're scared. They have not seen him lose yet. Surprised, yes, by Vane's trick with the fireships, but not yet disadvantaged enough to make it worthwhile to turn on him. There might be something to cause them to change their minds, yes, but I don't know what."

"Figure it out." Flint drummed his fingers on the table, eyes bleak and distant. He clearly did not want to be sitting here calmly talking strategy and subterfuge and possible angles of approach, did not want to keep holding himself together for outward appearances. Just wanted to burn, and burn, and burn. "And the Maroons – talk to Madi about it. Get her to make them agree to follow me, if that's what we're going with."

"I can't get Madi to _make_ them do anything." Silver's voice remained mild, but there was a warning in it. "She's a remarkable woman in her own right as well. You know none of them left the island thinking they'd have to follow anyone but her."

Flint's fist clenched, then smoothed jerkily flat on the tabletop, fingers working as if in search of something tangible to strangle. "So," he said after a moment. "You lie your arse off – it should come naturally, I imagine – to frighten the island, and the English, with tales of my return with an unstoppable force. We bluff to get a meeting with Rogers. Draw him out somewhere. Promise the Spanish gold back. Then strike, and settle this for good and all."

"It won't be that easy, you know," Killian warned. "Rogers is too careful for that, and he'll be on high alert for a trap. And if we can take him alive, he gives us more leverage that way. Dead, he's just a martyr for their side, an enduring image of the pirates' brutality and barbarism. No surer way to draw the infighting English factions together. Even you know that, mate."

"Whatever you say." Flint's voice was close to a snarl. _"Mate."_

Killian grimaced, as he himself could not at all be looking forward to a reunion with his tormentor. "And are we going to tell Rackham about this? I imagine he'll balk at offering up Vane's precious gold, even in pretense, when he's the trusted custodian of it."

"Fuck Rackham, then. We'll do it without him."

"We can't, all right?" Killian was clearly sympathetic to Flint's current emotional wasteland, but an edge of exasperation roughened his tone nonetheless. "We can't. He helped save my life, he was – is – the lawfully elected captain of the _Jolie_ since I decided not to challenge him again for command, and there's nothing to be gained by spurning him now, when our allies are thin enough on the ground as it is. I'll go over and tell him."

"Fine. You do that. Really, I don't give a shit." Flint picked up the rum bottle again, finished it off, and banged it down. "And how about all of you get the fuck out, anyway?"

Killian and Silver glanced at each other, then rose to their feet with rather deliberate courtesy, Silver's crutch thumping as he braced himself. Killian turned to Emma. "Coming, love?"

"Aye, just – just a minute."

He gave her another, longer look, clearly not fond of leaving her alone with Flint again, but nodded and withdrew. The silence this time was close to stifling, Flint all but about to go off with a bang, but Emma held her ground. When he started to look around again as if in search of yet more rum, she raised a hand. "I think that _is_ enough."

"Nursemaiding me now, are you?" Flint got heavily to his feet, staggered, and had to steady himself, belying his attempt to look as coldly sober as ever. "There's a waste of time."

"James."

His head snapped up, unwillingly.

"James," Emma repeated. "I know you just want to sleep. I know you want to go away from it. But we. . . we can't do this without you."

Flint's lip curled, as if to say that if so, they were spectacularly fucked. He seemed briefly about to blaze back a sharp reply, but didn't. "I keep dreaming about her," he said instead, very low, almost as if he had not meant to, but could not hold it back. His voice was anguished and small. "Miranda. She's – screaming. Always screaming, but she never makes a sound. There's some monster there, some beast, that stalks us both. I can't reach her, I can't touch her. She wants to speak to me. Sometimes she does. Asks me to forgive her, as if she was the one in the wrong. I almost want to stay asleep for good. Stay wherever she is. I am. . ." He turned away, into the shadows, as if he could not stand for Emma to see his face, but she still heard his whisper. "I am ruined without her. Ruined. And I cannot imagine ever being whole again."

Emma hesitated, aching for the evident and absolute devastation in his voice, his face, every raw and shattered sinew of him. She had lost her foster mother, whom she trusted and respected and admired and relied upon, whom she had loved very much and could hardly stand to think of her life without, and that was no small pain. Yet Flint had lost his wife, the woman he had been with for ten years, his partner and his solace, the woman who had given up everything to flee with him to Nassau, his last remaining link to Thomas Hamilton, to his old life in London, to any hint of James McGraw. He and Miranda had loved each other through hell, through exile and darkness and everything else that had been thrown at them, and they had not deserved this, this crushing of their dreams and despoliation of their future. Emma had no way to take that pain away, to ease that burden, and she wished that Sam was here. He would know how to make this better, even momentarily. He would know what to say, what comfort to offer. She hoped he would be back from Massachusetts soon. She and Killian – and Flint – needed him.

And yet, he wasn't. It was only her, only them. Notwithstanding the ever-present danger of death by decapitation, she crossed the creaking floorboards, reached out, and took his hand.

Flint tensed as sharply as if she had tried to shoot him, clearly on the brink of pulling back. He also clearly wished that she would stop trying so hard to reach him, that she would walk away and let him drown, as if the loss was so raw that even comfort made it worse. Or perhaps because he was so used to doing everything alone that the idea of sharing a grief, a loss, with anyone except Miranda – when Miranda herself was the subject of the grief – that he simply did not know how. Lost even that human notion, that allowance of fragility, in the fire.

"Hey," Emma said, her own voice barely a whisper. "There's something left to fight for, all right? For whatever it was worth, when you said that I was Miranda's daughter. I don't know if you feel the same way. I doubt it. But I'm still here. In any way it really matters, I'm the mother of your grandchild, of Miranda's grandchild. Killian is your friend. Sam is your. . . Sam. You still have something, someone, to come back to. Don't give up. She wouldn't want you to. You know she wouldn't."

"Do I?" Flint drew a shuddering, painful breath. "She wanted Charlestown burned. You heard her say it. After what happened with Ashe – " He stopped. "She had no intention of begging his forgiveness, any more than I did. If she wanted the war to go on – "

"She didn't," Emma said softly. "Not forever. Not at the cost of your soul. She always wanted the demon to let go of you, for the fight to be enough. We. . . we talked about it. Often."

Flint didn't answer, though the agony etched in every line of his face remained acute. The cabin was still dark, though the lamp they had lit for their meeting was burning low, wick guttering in the oil, throwing strange and shifting shadows on the walls. Emma had a sense that there were any number of things he could have said, rebuttals to be made, arguments about how very far they still had to go to have any hope of coming out the other side, and what state they would possibly be in when they did. That, after all, was exactly what Flint did: fight, no matter the battleground, no matter the subject. And he was, as anyone with even a passing acquaintance with him had cause to know, often to their detriment, extremely good at it.

Any of that, therefore, would have been far more expected than what he did. He let go of her hand, turned to her without a word, and leaned down to kiss her forehead, quietly and briefly and lightly. Then he straightened up, went to the door, and opened it, letting in a rush of warm night air. Stood there, still silently, and waited for her to go.

Emma, aware that she had done all she could for now, wanting to be with Killian, knowing that Flint did not want her to see him weep, went.

* * *

The next fortnight was occupied with this dangerous, delicate game of cat-and-mouse. For the best effect, the story had to have time to germinate, to spread naturally, to smolder just under the surface and then catch fire, to put Woodes Rogers on uneasy notice and start to wonder if his request for reinforcements had made it to Antigua after all, or if he was cut off and about to face the Caribbean's longest-tenured and most infamous (and now angriest) pirate captain by himself. They also had to find a place to anchor where the Navy would not stumble across them by accident, as the success of this bluff rested on Rogers believing that they had somehow assembled enough of a force to make his life very difficult if he wanted to do this the hard way. Silver had gone ashore with some of the men to get started on his task, but he likewise had not explicitly showed his face, or made himself known outright. He had instead written a letter, setting out the cost of continuing to oppose them, the danger of what was, if Rogers insisted on it, about to be unleashed. A letter signed, since the only legend who could announce the return of Captain Flint was another that must be created, _Long John Silver._

In the meantime, Emma and Killian were working to find a way to pass a message to Eleanor, wondering how much to tell her, and how exactly the hell they might pull this off. Wild tales of slave risings and pirate armies might be enough to frighten Rogers into one rash decision, although even that was not guaranteed, but if he learned too quickly that it was all just Silver's expert lies, he could strike back hard and trap them at a vulnerable juncture indeed. Their best hope was to catch Rogers off guard and take him prisoner at any potential meeting, as if they had the governor in hand, they would be able to dictate terms to the English forces. Even if so, even if he was forced to come alone, Rogers would be sure to have arranged some nasty snare in his wake. Such as, if he did not return within a set amount of time, his men had orders to torch the island and kill anyone who resisted. It would not at all be safe to underestimate him.

In this work, apart from each other, Emma and Killian were most often joined by the Maroon chieftainess' daughter and leader of their men aboard the _Walrus,_ Madi. Emma could quickly see the reason for Silver's intrigue; Madi was indeed a remarkable woman, barely in her twenties but strong and steely-minded, brave and decisive, but with that slight bit of vulnerability nonetheless. It transpired that her father was Mr. Scott, Eleanor's longtime assistant and co-manager of the Guthrie enterprise, someone well familiar to Emma from her days in Nassau. Madi also knew Poseidon and Ursula, which had rendered her reception of Killian distinctly cool, but she did at least seem willing to judge him on the merits of how he presented himself now, and to not hold past sins unduly against him. With what was at stake, they could not afford it. Not that that was likely to stop anyone else, but she, at least, could grasp it.

They did not see Flint much. He kept largely to his cabin, rarely emerging even for mealtimes, though sometimes he would appear when the scouts came back with their reports. Rackham had also kicked up a fuss about letting Vane's treasure potentially slip through his fingers; he knew he would be the one to take the fall if his ex-captain came back and discovered it gone. But as he was unable to offer much of an alternative, he was grudgingly forced to consent. They would have to make their move soon. A few more days at most. Otherwise Rogers would realize that his message had not made it to Gold, that nobody was coming to help him, and he would accordingly do something drastic. _We are running out of time._

"Is he meant to be back soon?" Madi asked, that evening. "Black Sam?"

"Aye, though who knows how long it took for him to make it to Massachusetts." Killian checked the chart on the table, where they were engaged in the slow process of plotting out the reported positions of the redcoats, how far they had fanned out across the island. If the scouts were to be believed, they were also avoiding the plantations, which was noteworthy. Rogers might have caught wind of the fact that Sam and Lancelot had been trying to stir up a revolt, and issued strict instructions to his men not to provoke them at any cost. _That means he's afraid of the possibility. Doesn't think it amounts to much, but he's still afraid of it._ "Or how long it took him to smooth things over with his Mariah. He'll be back, though. He's Sam."

Madi regarded him inscrutably. "Are you sure of that?"

"Aye," Killian said again. Doubting Sam was as foreign to him as doubting Emma, and needed no further articulation. "I likewise hope it will be soon. We could manage it – barely – but storming the harbor again with just the _Walrus_ and the _Jolie_ will be very dangerous."

Madi raised an eyebrow, as if to say that he had not needed to tell her that, and swept her long black dreadlocks over her shoulder, tying them out of her face with a thong. Then she said, "What if he does not? What if something went wrong? It is a long voyage to Massachusetts and back. If he was captured by the Navy, or. . . worse?"

Killian looked at her queerly. "Nothing went wrong."

"It would be comforting to be certain, yes. But if he does not return, it is my men who will have to make up the lack. Before I ask that of them, to fight alongside pirates in a battle where they could well all die, it would be only right that we knew for sure."

"If they didn't want to fight alongside pirates, why would they have left your island in the first place?" Killian dipped his quill in the inkwell and scribbled a terse update of their coordinates. "Besides, it won't come to that. Sam will be back soon."

"But if he – "

"I said, _Sam will be back soon!"_

Madi gave him a long, stonily cool stare, and Killian grimaced – if he wanted to convince her that he had changed from the days when he had dealt Ursula so dishonorably, this was a piss-poor way to go about it. While the air was crackling, the door opened and Emma appeared, returned from her nightly errand to leave food outside Flint's cabin – they were fairly sure he might not bother to eat otherwise. At sensing the standoff, her brow furrowed. "Is something wrong?"

"It's my fault, love." Killian sighed heavily. To Madi, he said, "You have a point, lass, of course. I'm just – it's not been the best few weeks of my life, that's for bloody certain, and I'm run raw with worrying about it all. Still, that's no excuse to bark at you. I'm sorry."

Madi eyed him suspiciously for a moment longer, then nodded fractionally, accepting the apology, and some of the tension eased. She turned to Emma. "Did you have news?"

"I did." Emma looked between them. "We have a meeting with Rogers. Tomorrow night."

Madi uttered a small exclamation of surprise, while Killian did not manage to be quite as circumspect. "Bloody hell! We do? How? What the blazes did he want, a – "

"I'm not entirely sure. It went through Anne, to Max, who got a message to Eleanor, and apparently she influenced Rogers to agree to it. It's a hidden spot outside Nassau, tomorrow after dark. We made it clear he was supposed to come with only a few trusted men, and we'd do the same. Obviously, it's a gamble, but. . . at this point, I think we're committed to making it."

"Bloody hell," Killian said again, looking down at their carefully curated map with its painstaking diagrams of movements and positions. As one of the few – indeed, the only, apart from Flint, and he wasn't much use at the present – men with actual military experience, even if his proficiency was at sea rather than on land, he had been requisitioned to craft and direct the pirates' entire plan of battle. It was also clear that while Rackham remained captain of the _Jolie,_ nobody had forgotten the duel where Killian had come out atop Flint, Vane, and Blackbeard, and the command he had taken as a result. They had set this up as Rogers having to face down Flint once and for all, but – with Flint as shattered and eclipsed and out to sea as he was – it seemed ever more that it was full as much a lie as Silver was making it. That the true power, the true adversary who awaited his reckoning with the governor and everything he stood for, in payment for what he had done, was Hook.

"Fine," Killian said, trying to recollect his troubled thoughts. "Tomorrow night after sundown. Do we know what sort of trick Rogers is liable to pull on us once we're there?"

"We'll have to be on the lookout for anything." Emma absently tidied a strand of loose blonde hair out of her eyes, as Killian's fingers ached with the desire to do it for her. "You should find Lancelot. We don't have much time to get ready and be sure of what we're going to do, so. . ."

Madi sensed the unspoken dismissal, looked between them for another moment, then nodded again and showed herself out. When they were alone, Emma leaned against Killian, burying her face in his shoulder, as he slid his arms around her and could not help but notice the shiver of need that ran through him. Emma was still healing from Geneva's birth, Killian still felt like one giant bruise, and with the worry and uncertainty and emotional turmoil of the past few weeks, intimate relations had been the last thing on their minds. Yet they had been sleeping closely together every night, curled in each other's arms, and he could not help but find it increasingly difficult to continue to do so in uneventful celibacy. They could touch each other, satisfy each other in different ways than full consummation, but that was still only a temporary measure. He wanted her, and he'd wait as long as he had to, but that did not mean that it was not starting to drive him slightly mad.

Emma's eyelashes fluttered, her lips parting, as Killian slid hand and hook down to her hips, bracing her firmly against him. Her fingers combed through the curl of hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his lips to hers for a very thorough kiss, and he took a step, about to lift her onto the table and to the devil with all their charts. Her other hand fiddled at the buttons of his shirt, sliding across the plane of his chest and around his shoulder, their foreheads close, noses brushing and mouths musing. He hitched her up onto the table, stepping between her legs, turning her head to deepen the kiss, hungry and haunting. Could at least give her release, some way or another, try to ease her over for whatever was about to happen tomorrow, or –

There was a scrape at the door, a thump, and Killian broke off, Emma still in his arms and both of them flushed and flustered, to see John Silver clearly regretting his decision to stop by for a strategical update. "Please," he said, holding up his free hand. "By all means, don't let me intrude. I'm glad _someone_ is enjoying themselves around here. But as we're going to have to come face-to-face with Rogers tomorrow, I thought – "

"It's fine." Emma slid off the table, pulling her unlaced shirt over her shoulders. Killian let go of her as well, the moment broken. "You can – you can look, we were – we were just finished."

Silver raised an eyebrow, as if to say that he was well aware that he had arrived while they were _in flagrante delicto,_ but did not demur. Stumped inside on his crutch to take over the maps, the vigil, and after a pause, quietly, they went.

The next day crept by on turtle feet. Everyone was, to say the least, on bristling edge about the multitudinous and spectacular ways in which the upcoming rendezvous could go horribly wrong, and Killian had to be clear on who all he meant to take along. Him and Emma, for a start. Rackham was in charge of the chest of Spanish treasure, which they would have to take to prove they had it. Lancelot and Madi would both be there as well, to serve as proof that the Maroons were fighting alongside the pirates. Silver would have to come, since it was his lies they were counting on, and Flint, so Rogers would know that he was in fact alive. That made seven in all, six if you considered that Silver couldn't fight, and there was no telling what show of force Rogers would make in return. After all, the bluff could cut both ways.

Killian paced and worried for most of the afternoon, until it was time to leave. Everyone had dressed in dark clothes, strapped on considerable quantities of weapons, and Killian was half-wondering if he would have to break into the cabin and drag Flint out by the heels. But he appeared in due course, nodded curtly to Emma, and climbed into the boat with them. Didn't say a word, but pulled the oars as if they had personally insulted him, sending them at a good clip across the glassy sunset water of the lagoon. They made a stop at the _Jolie,_ to pick up Rackham and the chest, and then rowed ashore, tied the boat, and headed off into the trees.

It was a good walk to the designated meeting spot, an outcrop of broken shore rocks and low-lying marshland a few miles outside of Nassau, and they made an odd traveling party to say the least. Silver was missing a leg and Killian was missing a hand, so Lancelot had to help Rackham haul the chest. Madi took the lead, though sometimes, unobtrusively, she would offer assistance if Silver was struggling too much on his crutch. Flint strode silently in the rear, and Emma was clearly keeping an eye on him. They had decided to arrive several hours early, so Rogers could not get there ahead of them and entrench an ambush, and everyone was sweating and out of breath by the time they made it. The wind whistled desolately over the empty ground, whistling among the hollows of the rocks as the breakers crashed below, and Killian felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. If this went bad, it was going to be hard to get out of here easily.

There was not much conversation as they waited. The sun was well down, the moon was up, and Rackham had just opened his mouth – doubtless to ask if they had gotten the date correct or something else annoying – when they finally heard the sound of hoofbeats and saw torchlight flickering on the path toward them. They stood up in a hurry, trying to look intimidating, as Woodes Rogers galloped into view, trailed by half a dozen other men on horseback. One of them, Killian was intensely disgusted to see, was Benjamin Hornigold, and he heard Flint make a similar hissing noise of loathing. Rogers appeared to have chosen the rest of his assistants for brawn rather than brain. If this was devolving into a slugfest, he preferred to be prepared.

There was no sound but the wind as Rogers dismounted and regarded them with those cool, opaque eyes. "Good evening," he said at last. "I have been told that there is a specific purpose to our meeting. Something about the Spanish gold pillaged from the wreck of the treasure fleet off Florida. Was I misinformed?"

"You were not." Killian gazed back at him just as coolly, though it sent an unpleasant grue down his spine to see him again. Rogers appeared to be mended from the wound Anne had dealt him, unfortunately, though there was still a slight scar on his forehead. "Though seeing as your bloody friend Jennings stole half of it, you could have asked him about its whereabouts well before."

"I did. Captain Jennings was unaware." Rogers shrugged. "He said he had been parted from it quite a while ago, when Charles Vane turned on him to drive him out of Nassau, and therefore could offer no useful intelligence on it. So – " those wintry eyes flicked to Rackham – "I understand that _you_ are the man responsible for it now?"

"I, ah, I am." Rackham cleared his throat. "We've brought this one chest to prove we have it. The full stash is safely elsewhere. We can imagine that Spain sees its return as a matter of priority."

"They do." Rogers' expression did not change. "They have issued an ultimatum that if their unlawfully stolen treasure fails to be repatriated to them in full, they will no longer consider themselves bound by the terms of the Treaty of Utrecht and will feel free to resume their previous state of war against Great Britain and all her allies. The governor of Havana has sent me several strongly worded letters about it, in fact. Even men of your. . . irregular sensibilities can doubtless understand that another war is the last thing we can afford."

"I don't know." Flint spoke at last, voice rough as granite. "I'd be all for another fucking war."

"I don't doubt you would." Rogers smiled faintly as he said it, taking in the sight of Flint from head to heel. "So the stories are true. You are alive."

Flint continued to stare at him with utter, charblack malevolence, until Killian shifted slightly, in case he should need to stop the older man from doing something stupid. Rogers himself was surely aware of his danger, but glanced at Lancelot and Madi, seemed to decide that they did not rate an actual comment, and then said, "Well? Am I to understand that you are proposing terms, or am I not?"

"Aye." Killian lifted his chin. "We hand over the Spanish treasure, you avert another war that neither Madrid nor London can afford, and in exchange, you and all your men leave New Providence Island for good. We remain as a free and independent state in the West Indies, to make our laws and customs according to our own authority and volition. At no point in the future may England again claim us as part of her land, expect taxes or services from us, or impinge upon our sovereignty. If she does, we will defend ourselves as necessary."

Rogers looked completely incredulous. "You must be mad," he said. "Mad, to think that I would ever agree to withdraw and leave a nest of thieves at large on His Majesty's rightful territory, to plague shipping and commerce in His Majesty's waters. Or perhaps you – "

"How much do you want the Spanish treasure back?" Killian said coolly. "Not that much?"

"No term of exchange or armistice will involve the continued existence of the pirates' republic." Rogers said it calmly and matter-of-factly, without much ire or umbrage, merely a cold, ironclad certainty. "Neither myself nor Robert Gold would ever agree to it, far less the rest of Westminster."

"Ah. See, there's this funny thing about your mate, Gold. Do the words _camera stellata_ ring any bells? Star Chamber?"

At that, Rogers did blink, but only once. "The Star Chamber was disbanded years ago."

"Really? Are you certain? Because you might want to pop back in and ask Gold one more time, just to be sure. Because he's been writing letters signed with their cipher as recently as a month ago, and, as I am sure I don't need to remind you, the Star Chamber was a symbol of monarchical tyranny and a secret society and law unto itself. A _Jacobite_ law."

"Lord Robert," Rogers said stiffly, "is not a Jacobite."

"Really?" Killian repeated. "You're sure? Though in this case, I think you're right. He's not a Jacobite. He's a bloody lunatic who serves no king or country except his own power and profit, and he's certainly no friend of yours. You know who I am. We used to attend the same supper parties in Bristol. You knew that Liam and I were devoted servants of the crown, and Gold deliberately destroyed us. He meant to push me into piracy all along, to make the Caribbean's new monster, and I am sad to say that I obliged him in everything. All the while so that all eyes would be fixed on me, and not whatever he was doing. Check his books. Check anything. He's a traitor. You already said you don't take orders from him. Is he the man you want covering your back in Antigua, mate? You really think he'd protect you from us?"

"Protect me." Rogers laid a light hand on his sword. "Yes, from this mighty force you claim to have assembled. Pirates and Maroons and all the bilge rats of the Indies, rising up to throw off the shackles of English tyranny. So you would have me believe. I only see seven of you."

"There are more," Killian said. "Many more."

"And I have the word of a traitor himself to wager on it?"

"If that's what you're questioning him on, why the bloody hell is that fat shit standing next to you?" Flint had evidently had quite enough of this badinage. "Fucking _Hornigold?"_

"Captain Hornigold is assisting me with the defense and intelligence of the island." Rogers' gaze did not waver, though his grip tightened on the sword hilt. "And surely it is no treason to repent from an outlaw to an upright citizen?"

"James, my old friend." Hornigold spread his hands in a rueful shrug. "When are you ever going to admit that in the end, you have chosen the losing side?"

Flint did not answer, merely stared back at him in such utter loathing that Killian was surprised that a crack did not split the earth open beneath Hornigold's feet and deposit him directly into hell. Evidently, however, Hornigold took his silence to mean that he could not refute the point. "Where is dear Samuel, by the way?" he went on. "I would have thought to see him here with you. Or did he try to overthrow another one of you, and had to be hastily dealt with? My condolences."

Killian gritted his teeth, reminding himself that there was absolutely no good result of being drawn into a bear-baiting with Hornigold, much as he yearned to stuff the bastard's smirking mug directly up his backside. Instead, he looked back at Rogers. "Are you interested in my offer or not? Besides, you must have sent to Antigua for reinforcements. Still nothing from Gold. You sure they want you to succeed here? You know what a crocodile that man is."

Rogers looked back at him inscrutably. "I want this chest now, as a signal of your good intentions. And a hostage. You can select among yourselves whichever one."

"Are _you_ mad? You think we'll give you one of us as a – "

"The exchange of hostages becomes necessary, where trust does not exist between two hostile factions," Rogers pointed out, once again as coolly as if he was reading from a treatise on military strategy. "And it has not escaped my attention that pirates, among their other disreputable qualities, are not known for their honesty. So both of us will have to strain ourselves, if we intend to walk away from here with any progress made."

"I don't see _you_ in a haste to offer us a hostage."

"We'll take Hornigold," Flint put in. "That should do nicely."

Killian was about to ask whether Flint remembered that the point of hostages was _not_ to kill them on the spot, sympathetic as he was to this aim, but Rogers shook his head, almost amused. "You still think you can demand that we treat as equals, that you are owed any consideration or conciliation under the law which you have repeatedly and flagrantly flouted and showed your disdain for at every available opportunity? If you wish to enjoy the benefits afforded by it, I suggest you begin by respecting it. If you are not willing to hand over the chest and a hostage – again, as I made plain at our last meeting, none of what I ask is overweening or unreasonable – then there are other ways to settle this. As noted, there are seven of you present. Captain Flint, 'Long' John Silver, Captain Hook, Captain Swan, Jack Rackham, and two leaders of the Maroons. I daresay without you, your compatriots would find it difficult to carry on."

Killian tensed, reaching for Emma. "You don't want to – "

"I don't want to what?" Rogers nodded to his redcoat escorts, who slung their muskets off their backs and checked the priming. "Provoke the wrath of this mystical pirate force that I have been assured is on my doorstep, waiting to fall upon Nassau with fire and slaughter? Perhaps you take me for a fool, or are in a haste to frighten me into a miscalculation? Was I intended, then, to unquestioningly believe the word of that paragon of trustworthiness, John Silver?"

Flint looked as if he was on the verge of agreeing wholeheartedly with this statement, before remembering that it came from Woodes Rogers and therefore he could not, on principle, do so. He shifted his weight. "Do you want to take that risk?"

"I don't know." Rogers' voice dropped, soft and menacing. "Do I?"

Killian remained engaged in trying to get Emma behind him, as to his eyes, those redcoats looked half a second away from opening fire and sending this exactly as pear-shaped as he had feared. They appeared to not quite dare without Rogers' say-so, Lancelot, Flint, and Rackham all had their hands on an exotic variety of swords and pistols, and Killian gave Emma a warning look, trying to tell her to grab Madi and make a break for it. But he wasn't sure that Rogers wouldn't fire on two women, even in the darkness, and since Silver was no use in a fight, that put them at severe disadvantage of numbers. Or –

"I will make myself clear," Rogers said. "Hand over the chest and two hostages – since if nothing else, this exchange has proven that your intransigence is not likely to be curtailed with one. Otherwise, I will have to give the order for the lot of you to be shot."

At that, Flint had heard more than enough. He ripped out his sword, lunged over the boulder dividing them, and went directly for Hornigold, as Killian – judging in the same amount of time that they had rather abruptly reached the end of negotiations – pushed Emma toward Madi, drew his own, and charged Rogers. A fusillade of musket fire boomed and flashed across the clearing as the redcoats drew the same conclusion, but Killian could not look around. Rogers managed to get his own sword free of the buckler just in the nick of time, and their blades crashed with an impact strong to send sparks skidding from the edges and the reverberations up Killian's arm. He took a better grip, changed angles, and slammed down a second blow, then a third.

Rogers was ready for him, expertly parrying his attacks and well aware of his footing on the treacherous ground, as they drew apart, circled briefly, then closed in again, swords crashing and screeching. Killian was aware of Flint punishing Hornigold somewhere nearby, another exchange of shots – Lancelot and Jack were firing, he thought at least one redcoat was down, Silver had spread his arms trying to shield Emma and Madi (that was, however slightly, a point in the git's favor) but Emma herself did not appear inclined to hang back and let the men handle things. She was, after all, a pirate captain in her own right, the only woman in the Caribbean to claim the honor. She drew her sword and leapt for the nearest redcoat.

Madi herself dove for a rock, which she threw hard at the soldier coming for her, and he went down with a curse, clutching at his bloodied nose. At that, Killian lost track of everyone else again, the thought locked in his head that if he could just handle Rogers right now, he could save them, he could save everyone. He remembered his own admonition against murdering the man, that a public demise would be exactly what the English needed to rally together and finish the fight, but if Rogers got himself killed in some midnight backwater duel, if they could just pull the threads and make it unravel – it would be over, they would be safe – Gold might send another deputy to Nassau, yes, but their back would be broken –

"You're making a foolish choice, Jones." Rogers was out of breath, but only slightly, a long lock of sandy-brown hair falling in his face, as they sized each other up for the next attack. "After everything – "

"Aye." Killian almost laughed, despite himself. "After what you bloody did to me, you still somehow think there's a chance I'll decide to come over to your side again? And here I thought you were supposed to be a smart man."

Rogers looked as if he was about to reply, but at that moment, they were distracted by a crash, a thump, and a sickening squelching sound from behind them, and they both whirled around, just in time to see Flint throwing his full body weight into driving his sword as deep into Benjamin Hornigold as he possibly could. He pulled the blade out with a shriek and grit against bone, and as Hornigold was going down, swung it like an axe into his neck, blood spraying in his face as he bared his teeth. Hornigold seemed to be trying to say something, choking and gurgling, but couldn't make it out. He convulsed once more, and went still.

Rogers stared at the fallen body of his loyal stooge for a brief, spellbound moment, then lunged like a striking cobra, grabbing Madi by the hair and dragging her in front of him, as another of the redcoats kicked the pistol out of Rackham's hand, punched him in the belly, and doubled him over. A third went for the chest, then hauled it up toward the horses, which had been rearing and shying at the sight and sound of the free-for-all. Rogers forced Madi backward, sword at her throat, as Jack kept struggling, received a thumping blow over the head for his trouble, and slumped like a sack of oats. Flint whirled around, but was stopped dead as Rogers trained a pistol on him with his free hand. "Please," he said. "Give me a reason, I beg you."

The redcoat hoisted Jack's limp body over the back of his horse, hog-tying him, as the other two took custody of the chest. Rogers pushed Madi in front of him, keeping the gun pointed unwaveringly at Flint. "Two hostages," he repeated, breathless and snarling. "Two hostages, and the chest. That was what I asked for. Well, I appear to have them now. You could have handed them over far more peaceably, but you didn't. All the Spanish treasure, returned to me by sundown tomorrow, or both of them die, as well as all the remaining men accused of piracy that I hold back in Nassau. Then I will search the entire island, deploy my ships to find however many you claim to have, and order them all sunk without quarter or cessation. Any man who survives will then be hanged. This is your final warning. Do _not_ test me."

With that, he spun around, grabbed Madi by the arm, and shoved her onto his horse, then mounted up as well, raising a hand to beckon to the other two. Gathered up the reins, gave them a final, blazing, hell-black look, and galloped away into the darkness.

* * *

It was a long, grim, dangerous retreat back to the beach. Even the momentary and much-deserved vindication of finally killing Hornigold could not disguise the desperation of their situation. If Madi died, the Maroons would, at best, desert the pirate cause immediately – at worst, they might actively turn on them. Jack was, in a coldly pragmatic sense, not an irreplaceable loss, but he _was_ the captain of the _Jolie,_ Anne would not stand to let him die, and might take reckless risks trying to rescue him. As well, Rogers had of course additionally acquired the chest of Spanish treasure, which left them without anything else to use as negotiating leverage. Either they meekly handed over the rest of it, or they dug in and prepared for an all-out battle on both land and sea waged to the bitter end, and with casualties guaranteed to be ruinous. Everything hung from the slenderest of threads.

Killian's mind was racing, and his stomach was leaden. He could not help but blame himself for his own failure to take down Rogers in time, as if that had been the final real chance they had to stop him, and he was viciously second-guessing the decision to risk a parlay with the dangerous bastard in the first place – which had been mostly his as well. The ragged remnants of the pirate cause had put their faith in him to serve as their general and commander, and all he seemed to be doing was leading them from bad to worse. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough.

It was very late by the time they made it back to the _Walrus_ and the _Jolie,_ yet there was no chance of anyone sleeping. They had to face the Maroons and admit what had happened to Madi, and while at least Lancelot could vouch for their version of events, it was a violently fraught atmosphere. Anne was also as pleased as could be expected to hear that Jack _and_ the chest had been captured, and there was so much shouting on all sides that an outsider stumbling on the scene would have concluded that they were the adversaries, not the allies. Flint would hear of no reproach for making Rogers even angrier by killing Hornigold – did it matter, when he was clearly determined to do them all the harm he could, provocation or otherwise? – and Killian's own culpability in the matter did not escape censure. What the hell was his plan now? Why should they trust him? Why not just hand over the Spanish gold, and try to get away why they still could? Nassau was a lost cause. Find another island to call home. The English might well come along to boot them off that one too, but at least it would buy them some time.

It was in the middle of this rancorous scene that the lookout ran in to make it even worse, by telling them that he had spotted a ship approaching, and everyone crowded above decks. It was close to sunrise by now, so the faint dawn glow illuminated an eerie redness on the horizon behind the newcomer – the portent of war, Killian thought, could stand to be not _quite_ so on the nose. He found himself praying it was the _Whydah_ and Sam, but it was only one ship, and not nearly large enough. But it was, for better or worse, just as familiar. The bloody _Ranger._

Within another quarter-hour, Vane had drawn abreast, close enough to shout over the railings, as even Flint, for once, could not muster a sardonic comment on his timing – said timing had, after all, saved his arse in Charlestown. That did not mean he was pleased to see him by any stretch of the imagination, but he had to bite his tongue, as they were so sorely in need of any help at all that Vane's particular brand of insanity had the possibility of being useful. "You what?" he rasped, when he had been brought up to date on recent events. "You took my fucking treasure, then let Rogers capture it _and_ Jack?"

"You weren't here." Killian looked at him coolly. "And unless you're planning on making yourself bloody useful, and fast, we'll likely have to hand over the rest of it."

Vane looked as if he could not believe that they kept getting themselves into situations from which he was obliged to exert himself to retrieve them, especially it involved this risk to his capital, but he was also aware that with Rogers on the warpath, now was not the time to split hairs. "In case you didn't notice," he said instead, "I haven't had any fucking trouble fighting him. Rogers, that is. I burned his blockade once, I'll do it again if that's what this has come to. I want Jack and my money back, and I intend to get them. The rest of you – "

"We'll fight," Flint said. "That's not even a question at this point. And once Bellamy returns – "

Something flickered across Vane's face, which all of them noticed, bringing an abrupt and uncomfortable halt to the conversation. Killian took a step forward, feeling as if something had come to ferocious life in his gut and was about to claw its way out. "What?" he demanded. "Did you – on the way back here, did you hear something? _What?"_

"I ran across a small trader under pirate colors," Vane said after a moment. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Called the _Mary Anne_. When I drew in alongside her, I found eight men from Bellamy's crew aboard. They said there had. . . there had been a storm."

Killian's heart felt as if it was about to burst from his chest. "Storm?"

"Aye." Vane looked at him straight. "They said they had taken the _Mary Anne_ as a prize, that all of them had then been caught in a terrible gale off the coast of Cape Cod, and they barely survived. Waited and waited for the _Whydah_ to appear, but it didn't. Never did. I wouldn't wait for your friend to return. I don't think he's coming back."

"You're lying." It burned out of Killian like a fresh-fired cannonball. "You're _lying."_

Vane barked a mirthless laugh. "The fuck reason would I have to lie about it? They weren't. Looked like a bunch of milk-white cowards, rattled to the bone, just wanted to be out of there. So I stopped another ship, the _Swallow,_ and they had the same tale, said it was spreading across the Cape like wildfire. The _Whydah_ was wrecked and sank in the storm, only two men survived, and both of them were caught and taken to jail to be tried for piracy. John Julian, one of the Indians, and Thomas Davis, a carpenter. Bellamy's dead, Jones. You'd better fucking face it."

Killian felt as if the world was giving way beneath his feet. He couldn't even look at Flint and Emma, even knowing that they must be reacting in the same way, that this was flaying and burning any hope they had of a miraculous deliverance, an eleventh-hour arrival of extra forces prepared to fight – and more than that, _Sam._ It could not be. Sam could not be dead, he simply couldn't be. It made no sense, it was not right, it was not just, it was not. It was not. It was _not._ And if Flint was already utterly delirious and destroyed and reeling from losing Miranda, this second blow on top must be the complete and final confirmation of the burning hatred that the world seemed to hold for him, his unbridled temerity in ever loving anything or anyone anywhere. Just then, Killian was not sure he was handling it any better. He wanted to seize a pistol and shoot Vane on the spot, even though there was that old saw about what you were not supposed to do to the messenger. He couldn't breathe. He wanted this to be a dream. Vane might be mistaken. Had to be. _Had to be._

Killian tightened his grip on the railing with his one wretched hand, as if he might be shaken off into space if he didn't. He was aware that the last thing Sam would have wanted was for him to plunge straight back into the darkness, to give rein to Hook again, and careen out of control down that old, terrible road. There was no person or entity to swear vengeance on for Sam's death, if it had been quite literally an act of God that took him out – Killian could hardly murder the wind and weather, could not swear to make nature itself pay for this outrage. He did not know if that was better or worse. At least it freed him from the temptation to start a new obsessive crusade to bring the man responsible down, but it also meant there was no easy answer, no obvious way, to pay back the immensity of this outrage. Meant that he would just have to accept it, of all the impossible, unbearable things, and try to pick up the pieces.

He struggled to say something. He could not get his tongue to form around the words. Everyone was looking at him, he felt as if his spine had been snapped, and yet he could not even let himself think about this, could not grieve, could not break. Not when this terrible, final task remained.

Killian lifted his head, and said, "We fight."


	40. XL

**-XL-**

The stretch of coast chosen for the pirates' moot was the same that had hosted the last one, where Flint, Vane, Blackbeard, and Hook had battled it out for supremacy of the fleet and the right to sail to Antigua to save Sam – a particular and painful irony that nobody could forget. Emma certainly had not. She was aware of the discussion washing over her, Killian's fingers linked through hers and her head on his shoulder, and the general idea that she should pull herself together and contribute something constructive to the conversation, but she was still reeling. She had told Flint just the other night that there was something to return to, something to fight for, that he could not give in and he had to find some reason to keep trying, and now she was struggling as hard as she could, not at all in her natural instinct or belief, to do the same herself. God, it was so much. Liam, Regina, Henry, Geneva, Will, and Miranda already, and now Sam. When was it going to be enough? Did the world want Killian next? Her? What was the point of surviving the battle, of making it to the other side, if there was nothing left when it was over? She had known this was a possibility, when she chose to stay behind and fight: that despite her best efforts, she could still lose everything and everyone. But all the rationalization and experience and long-worn practice did not make this any easier. This one hurt down to her bones, and there was no way to evade it or shut it down or bottle it up, her usual method of keeping the world away from her heart. She just had to sit here, and face it.

On her other side, Flint was all but a statue, motionless and wordless, but as the disagreements continued, he finally rose to his feet with a jerk, causing heads to turn and a sudden silence to fall. "It's simple," he said. "Rogers wants all the Spanish gold back, or he'll kill Rackham, Madi, the rest of the pirates imprisoned in Nassau, and everyone else he bloody can. There's no compromise or negotiation with a man like that. That is no possibility."

"So what do we do?" Anne glared at him. "Let Jack die?"

"No." Flint's mouth twisted viciously. "We call Rogers' bluff. Force his hand."

"That sounds a fuckin' lot like letting Jack die." Anne stood up as well, as Vane shifted his weight behind her, an unspoken warning. "Or did you mean something else?"

"Aye." Flint was too far gone to actually smile in any remotely recognizable way, but he bared his teeth and pulled his lips back. "The Spanish can't fault Rogers for not returning their treasure if he's seen to be ignominiously and utterly defeated in trying to retrieve it, can they? Then when they don't get it back, they can either choose to proceed to a war – a war in which they will have the slimmest of pretexts, no money to fight it, a number of better things to be doing, and an awareness that they cannot measurably gain anything from it except the _principle_ of the thing – or they can be forced to swallow their pride and take the loss. Think of it. We can do that. We can force both these fucking empires, Spanish and English alike, to play by our rules. The gold is our last leverage, our last gamble. We can't give it up under any circumstances."

Vane, who had clearly been prepared for Flint to suggest that they hand it over just because it belonged to him, was instead caught on the hop. "And how the fuck do we pull that off?"

"We tried bluffing Rogers with it once." Killian spoke for the first time as well, voice raw and rusty, as he let go of Emma's hand and moved to face his counterparts. "We all saw what happened then. You're suggesting that we actively bait them into another world war."

Flint shrugged, his grin more vengeful and savage than ever. "Only if they insist on it."

The moot exchanged wary looks. But as nobody else had yet put forward a viable proposal, they were obliged to let Flint continue to hold the floor (or, strictly speaking, sand). "Here is what we do," he went on. "We put the gold aboard the _Walrus._ We leak information to Rogers letting him know that it has been moved, and give him enough time to get aboard a ship and come after us. One on one – he'll think it is a worthwhile risk. He'll pursue us out to sea. We'll malinger, make him think we're running damaged, get him overconfident, and keep him away from here as long as we can. Then turn, make a stand, and settle it. He only has Navy sixth-raters to choose from, none of them run more than twenty guns. The _Walrus_ can overmatch any of those in a head-on firefight, and I know the area much better than Rogers does. We'll sink him, cache the treasure, and return here."

"Right," Vane said. "Because I'm sure to agree to any plan that involves putting my gold on your ship and letting you sail away with it, with your _word_ you'll be back."

"In the meantime," Flint continued, as if Vane had not spoken, "the _Jolie_ and the _Ranger_ will take on the remaining forces on Nassau. We need the _Jolie's_ guns for any storming of the harbor or sustained fight, and as our. . . friend pointed out, he has recently had stunning success in running the blockade. The _Ranger_ can get in ahead as a light strike force, rescue Rackham and Madi, and the _Jolie_ can deliver the main body of the troops. With Rogers gone, the defense of Nassau Town will be a deputized, haphazard affair. Take the fort, and we have the victory. Its guns can bombard any of the Navy ships in the harbor, and I will take Rogers alive in order for him to agree to and sign any terms of surrender we decide to impose. With a defeat as comprehensive as that, and especially if Gold is arrested for treason at the same time, Great Britain won't dare lift a finger in the Bahamas for another ten years at least. So, then. That's how we win the fucking battle and the war together, once and for all. Clear?"

It was quiet enough to hear crickets shirring in the trees, the rustle of the night breeze, the crackle of the fire and the crash of the waves. Nobody could argue with this proposal in the tactical sense, as Flint's ruthless genius in such matters was rarely questioned, but the amount of insanity, skill, and luck it would take to pull off was almost unthinkable – especially when, to say the least, the latter quality had been in vanishingly short supply recently. Finally, it was Killian who was left to raise the first of numerous questions. "What troops, exactly, am I supposed to land on the beach with the _Jolie?_ The Maroons? I can take on most of Vane's men if the _Ranger_ is meant to slip in first as a small vanguard, but that's just spreading our numbers around, not increasing them. Whatever we can muster, that is no guaranteed victory. Even assuming Rogers does follow you out to sea, he'll leave the fort crawling with soldiers. He knows its value just as much as we do."

"You're the one with the ex-Navy men," Flint said flatly. "They're the only ones who have any bloody idea of discipline and cohesion and ability to match against trained and drilled redcoats, not just a bunch of hairy shrieking bastards rushing ashore and spoiling for a brawl. So just – "

"'Scuse me," Vane interrupted. "Can we go back to the fucking part where you're putting my gold on the _Walrus_ and sailing off with it?"

" _Therefore,"_ Flint said to Killian, "since Rackham is gone, I assume you will take up your post as captain of the _Jolie_ again, and command them accordingly. As for the Maroons – "

"I make the decisions for us, while Madi is a prisoner." Lancelot did not speak loudly, but his force and authority was unquestioned. "Not you."

Flint looked as if he was about to bark back, but Emma got to her feet and put a hand on his arm, standing between him and Killian as an extra bulwark against anything going sideways. _More, that is._ It felt pitiable and hollow and pointless just now, but she had to keep trying, or crumble entirely. "You're right," she said, addressing Lancelot. "What do you mean to do?"

"Captain Bellamy and I were attempting, as you recall, to recruit slaves from the interior plantations." Lancelot nodded in acknowledgment of the difficulty that it must be to hear the name spoken aloud. "Nor did we have much success. But tragic as these circumstances are, there is still the possibility that some good can come of them. All their brothers, men who had families on my island, who served on the _Whydah,_ are dead. This loss is not only yours. It is not only Sam. Maroon children have lost fathers. Maroon wives have lost husbands. John Julian, one of the two survivors, is full-blooded West Indian and will be sold into slavery, if he doesn't hang for piracy. All these men served on Bellamy's crew, and Bellamy himself was the only pirate we knew that we could trust. I will not ask the slaves to rise up in your name, Captain Flint. I will ask them in the memory of our own. Perhaps they thought they could not afford to fight before, that there were others who would do it. Those others have been lost with Sam. They can decide how they wish to honor their deaths, of course, but that choice seems clear to me."

"So you would – "

"I would lead the Maroons to Nassau from the far side of the island," Lancelot said. "Move fast and in secret. Gather every willing man from the plantations en route, everyone who wishes to recompense the sacrifice of their brothers on the _Whydah._ That way, we can split our attack. You hit them from the front, via the harbor, with the _Jolie_ and _Ranger._ We hit them from the rear, and with a force that is their worst nightmare. Madi would want me to do no less. She would not agree to give up the war, the chance of breaking their chains, simply for her personal benefit."

Silver shifted restlessly. "Nor do I think she would accept being left in Rogers' clutches."

Lancelot smiled wryly. "You greatly underestimate her if you think she'll ever sit quietly and agree to anything he foists on her. We know Rogers fears a slave uprising, and he will try to leverage her to forestall one. Our compatriot here – " he nodded at Vane – "will try to rescue her as well as Rackham. But if our positions were reversed, I have no doubt that she would order the exact same course of action."

Silver did not seem entirely approving of this, as it was clear that he had unexpectedly developed a soft spot for the Maroon princess (such as seemed the best way to call her), but he did not offer another objection. Meanwhile, it was clear that Vane was not about to settle for being blown off for the third time in a row. "Anyone still about to tell me why I agree to this?"

"Because you have to, mate." Killian turned to him, regarding him frankly. "You know the fort the best, you were the one who succeeded in breaking the siege last time, and if I am not very much mistaken, you would do anything to get ashore and come personally to grips with Eleanor Guthrie, after she's sold all of us out and taken up with Woodes bloody Rogers instead. As well, it's your cash and your man in Rogers' hands. We need you to take the _Ranger_ into the attack on the harbor and Nassau Town, and that leaves only the _Jolie_ and the _Walrus_ as options to store the rest of the treasure. As Flint said, we need the _Jolie's_ guns and the Navy experience of her men for any direct assault on the English, and she's not the fastest of our cohort. That would have been the _Whydah,_ but we. . . don't have her anymore. If we are wagering on luring Rogers out to sea and into a fight among the unmarked shores and channels and shoals, we need the fastest ship remaining apart from the _Ranger_ , with the man who knows the area best. That's the _Walrus,_ and that's Flint. He's already said he's not giving up your gold to the bastards under any circumstances, and for once, I think he's bloody telling the truth."

It was difficult to say whether Vane or Flint were more taken aback by this defense of the latter's strategy, even as its drawbacks remained plainly apparent. Vane considered Killian for a long moment, blue eyes intent as burning coals, and then, still more unexpectedly, he said, "Fine. I'll agree to it. But I'm not trusting Flint alone. I want you to ensure it."

"What?" It was Killian's turn to be taken aback. "You want me to go with him? I need to command the _Jolie,_ and would you – I know you and Flint have your differences, to say the bloody least, but is it Captain Hook you'd trust any more?"

"I'm not trusting Captain Hook." Vane continued to stare at him challengingly. "It's Killian Jones the slave I'd put my faith in. Or am I wrong?"

Killian remained at a loss for words, even as Emma thought of Vane's own origins, his undying hatred for men who would hold others in bondage, no matter their creed or color or created justification. This was, if nothing else, the one thing that Charles Vane and Killian Jones could see absolutely eye-to-eye on, especially as the subject of slaves rising from subjugation remained such a crucial part of the rest of their plans. Indeed, they continued to stand there, looking at each other, until Vane said, "Whoever you name to go along with Flint, that is who I will hold responsible for its success, and the return of my prize. Whoever you trust, I will as well. Whoever fails you fails me, and the consequences will be as they deserve."

Killian opened and shut his mouth. He looked as if he was about to demand renegotiation of this condition, even knowing that he had no diplomatic leg left to stand on if he did, but just then, Emma spoke up. "I'll go with Flint."

Killian shot her an aghast look. "Swan. Wait."

"I'll go with Flint," Emma repeated. "Nobody could question my importance to you, or think that you had anything less than the ultimate investment in my safe return. I know the area as well as Flint does, or better, because I spent plenty of time in it with the _Blackbird._ I made my living finding the places where the Royal Navy couldn't follow me, and I can scout out somewhere to stash the gold. And Flint and I, we. . ." Her throat felt thick. "I began as a pirate with him. Maybe I end a pirate with him too."

She couldn't tell what expression crossed Flint's face at that, if it was pride or grief or something else, as he looked away too quickly. Killian clearly did not want to consent to them being separated at any price, as it was all too likely that they would never see each other again. As he was still fishing for words, a new voice spoke. "Emma. You can't go with him. None of you can."

Emma turned just in time to see Billy Bones step out of the crowd, grim and defiant-looking, as he faced them down. "Don't any of you hear yourselves? Once more agreeing to follow Flint into some lunatic plan, the darkest abysses of his mind, with only his _word_ that it has any chance of success? Nobody else sees the arrogance of discussing the terms of surrender we might offer to Rogers, when he's the one who has his boot on our necks? This involves baiting the Spanish and English like rival roosters in a fight – if there's another war, it won't just destroy them, it will destroy us too! Burn the world down, just for Flint's private grief? It never ends. We've followed him from one hell to another. Jamaica, the mutiny there – I stopped that for you, _Captain,_ you're fucking welcome – then to Charlestown, to murder, to sacking, to storms, to doldrums, to captivity with the Maroons, and now this. I've had enough. Any man on the _Walrus_ who feels the same is welcome to stand up now and join me. And Emma, it wasn't Flint who saved you and gave you the first chance to join our world. It was me. You owe that all to me, not him. He would have butchered you like the rest. He likely still would. I've waited all this time, I'm not waiting any longer. Open your eyes. See what he really is."

A murmur circulated through the crowd at these words, as Billy remained planted like a colossus in the sand, arms folded, staring at Emma. Her friend, the man she had trusted with Charlie and Henry's safety, so often fought alongside, counted a valuable and steadfast ally. Heart already raw and bleeding from Miranda and Sam, she did not think she could bear to face this betrayal too. "Billy, don't. Not now, we don't have a choice, we – "

"We don't have a choice? Except to follow Flint's plan, of course? How do we keep fucking ending up in situations where that is the only _choice?"_ Billy looked around scathingly, as a few rumbles of support began to rise. "When this one inevitably blows up in our faces, what will the next excuse be after that, and the next? Anyone who wants to sail off with Flint on some doomed wild goose chase is welcome to it. Anyone who wants to fight with me as a free man, to overthrow all the tyrants here and not merely the ones in red coats, stand up. Stand up."

"Billy." Killian took a step toward him. "Billy, mate, don't you think this could – "

"I don't want to hurt you, Jones." Billy laid a hand on the blunderbuss slung across his chest. "But if you defend Flint one more time, if any one of you do, then – "

"What?" Flint seemed almost about to laugh. "You'll shoot them? Kill anyone who stands in your way, and then claim you're a better man than me?"

"The only man I want to hurt here is you." Billy's gaze remained locked malevolently on his. "If that is what it takes to stop this sick bloody game from continuing to eternity."

"Billy," Silver began. "Come now, don't – "

"Are you siding with him now? _You?_ When we agreed that he would get all of us killed?"

"Yes," Silver said, simply and without pretention. "Yes, I am."

Billy wheeled in a circle, as if appealing for any remaining man of sense to make themselves known to him on the instant. He stopped to once more stare at Emma, seemingly waiting for her to realize her error, apologize, and cross the sand to stand with him, but as much as it further battered her fragile soul to do, she did not move. "I'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "I'm staying with Flint."

Billy flinched. Again he said, "You don't owe him anything."

"Maybe not." Emma tilted her chin back to look at him. "I'm still staying."

Bereft of the two highest-profile converts to his cause he had expected in Silver and Emma, and with a competing current of angry muttering starting to rise at the danger he was putting their last chance of striking back at Rogers in, Billy was – for the moment, and with the clear implication that he would entertain interested applicants later and in more privacy – forced to back down. But the air remained heavy and ugly, lines sharply drawn between various factions of the _Walrus'_ crew, and with the alliance and the strategy as tenuous as it was, this did not bode well at all for their chances of actually pulling it off. Nor could they idle a few days and see if tensions cooled down, as Rogers had set a twenty-four-hour deadline, and after a very unpleasant silence, Killian cleared his throat. "We need to get the gold moved from the _Jolie_ to the _Walrus."_

Flint shot him a bleak look, as if to ask if it was really a wise idea to put the treasure on his ship when half his crew might mutiny before the night was out – Billy couldn't be the only one feeling that it was more than time to take their chances away from Flint's maelstrom of catastrophes, just the only one brave enough to say it out loud. Since Flint had skated on perpetually thin ice in regard to his men's loyalty for months now, this might be the watershed moment. Killian himself was far too versed in the difficulty of holding command, and the temptation of following anyone who promised a quick solution, to think that Billy would not have any takers. If worse came to worse, the _Walrus_ could run with a skeleton crew, but that reduced their already razor-thin margin of error to zero. And if the defectors caused further trouble on their way out the door, that was not even guaranteeing that they got the chance to try.

Still. The alternative was to sit on their hands and waste precious time, and acting afraid of Billy would strengthen his position, if he saw that he could force them to reconsider. So, while Vane prowled in the background just to keep everyone suitably on edge and also to be sure that none of it was accidentally mislaid, the treasure was unloaded from the _Jolie's_ hold, rowed over to the _Walrus,_ and secured belowdecks. If Vane had his way, Emma would have gone aboard with it at the same time, but Anne stepped over and said something in a quiet but forceful undertone. The end result was that Vane agreed, with rather bad grace, that Emma could spend the night on the _Jolie_ with Killian, and join the _Walrus_ at first light tomorrow.

When they were finally alone in the cabin, Emma felt something close to unreality sweep over her. That they should be back where it had all started, where she had been the pirate captain held by the Jones brothers aboard HMS _Imperator,_ and that how it ended, _if_ it ended, rested on the scale of the gamble they had to take tomorrow, after everything else they had already lost. She had to be strong again, she had to, and yet just now, in the darkness, in the quiet, in feeling everything she had pushed away for her own sanity, it was too much. She pressed a hand to her mouth, and went slowly to her knees, sobbing so hard that she did not make a sound.

In a flash, Killian was next to her, pulling her into his arms, hand on the back of her head and hook against her waist, holding her fiercely as they hit the floor together. He buried his face in her hair, his own breathing not sounding terribly steady, as both of them shook and shook as if they could not stop. He rocked her, kissing her cheek and her ear, as he lay down on the moonlit boards and she curled up next to him, head on his chest, their fingers linking. They said nothing for the longest time. Then Emma whispered, voice breaking, "I can't believe Sam's gone."

"Me too, love." She felt his throat move as he swallowed hard, trying to keep himself together. "The one consolation I have is that none of the bastards killed him. None of them defeated him, none of them ever did. He. . . he's at rest in the sea now. At peace. I know I'd like to lie there too, if it came to that."

"No." Emma's fingers clenched hard on his shirt. "Killian, no, I can't. I can't lose you. I couldn't go on by myself, I'd. . ."

"Promise me." He kept stroking her hair. "If, God bloody forbid, I die tomorrow, you still have to find Geneva and Henry. You have to keep living. Please."

The words were locked in Emma's throat. She wanted to ask him to do the same if she was the one who did not make it, not to give into Hook again, not to avenge himself on whoever might kill her – the odds being extremely good at the moment that if anyone, it would be Rogers. It seemed as if the only solace either of them would have, if one should die, was that the other would go on – yet for the surviving half, it would be the worst of all punishments. To go back to being alone, when before they knew each other, that had been their natural and preferred state. To have felt such pure and perfect connection and completion, the breath of each other's souls, to be fashioned of the very same stardust, and then lose it – neither of them could endure. No one could. And yet, if it came to it, to honor the other's final request, they would have to.

"There's also the other possibility," Killian said at length, when she did not answer. "We could both survive. We could return to each other. I know it seems bloody unlikely, but. . . we could. If we do, Emma, I. . . I don't want to waste it. And I don't think Sam would want us to."

Emma laughed shakily, thinking of how colorfully and unambiguously Sam had told them to sort out their nonsense and be brave enough to get together. "No. I don't think he would."

"So." Killian took a steadying breath. "I've thought of this for a long time, but I've never done it, because I've always been too bloody afraid for one reason or another. Or thought you'd change your mind, or that I simply don't deserve it. I still might not, I don't know. But if we do come through this, if there's any day after this one when we see each other again – "

"Killian." Emma sat upright, pulling him with her, their foreheads touching. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

"I – " He coughed, looking down at their entwined hands. "I didn't want to presume, but – "

Emma cut him off by kissing him, long and thoroughly, until they were breathless when they pulled apart. She brushed her nose against his, then leaned back to look at him. "Ask me."

He looked briefly about to question, one more time, if she was sure. But a faint, fragile smile crossed his lips, almost despite himself, as he took her hand in his, and she reached out to grip his hook with the other. "Emma Swan," he said softly. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes." Her own smile was trembling, her tears both of unbearable joy and searing heartbreak, as she felt almost guilty for allowing herself any kind of happiness in this darkness – and yet if nothing else, being absolutely sure that Sam would categorically refuse to let them deny it to themselves on his account. "Yes, I will."

Killian kissed her again, slower and longer, as they got up and walked backwards to the bed, climbing onto it together, as Emma unclicked the hook from its brace and pulled his arms around her neck. They shifted together as she straddled him, cupping his head in her hands, tracing the corner of his lips with her thumb, their mouths open and soft and searching. She was not healed entirely, and nor was he. But that seemed so poignantly, terribly fitting that Emma felt her heart twist almost sweetly at the realization. They were cracked and scarred and deeply worn from all the damage they had taken, the battles they had fought through, the loved ones they had lost, and the knowledge that there may yet be one ultimate price left to pay. Yet there was still their own choice to be made, their own small flame of hope and bravery to keep burning, if they could just love each other enough, one more time. Emma's old instinct in the face of pain was, as ever, to wall herself away, just as Killian's was to give into Hook. Yet if anything was going to come of this, if they were going to celebrate Sam's life and grieve his death in any way that truly mattered, both of them had to do better. Had to rise above.

They remained moving slowly, almost in a dream, as they undressed, as Emma undid the buckles for Killian's brace and slid it off his shoulders, until they were only in their skins. Touched each other gently and thoroughly, trying to smooth away the shattered edges and the broken pieces. Settled among the pillows, the _Jolie_ rocking at anchor beneath them, as Killian slid as carefully into her as if she was made of glass. Emma caught her breath, bracing herself with her hands on his shoulders, more worried about hurting him than she was for any pain of her own. They remained there for a seemingly eternal moment, completed, at peace, home. _Home._

Finally, just as lightly and gently, Killian began to move, riding up into her as Emma's hair fell loose around her shoulders. Neither of them could fail to be reminded of their first coupling, late at night in Miranda's spare bedroom, when Emma had walked in and Killian could have pretended to be asleep. But he had not, he did not, and so they had come together, and they had made their daughter and their future and their _time_. However little. However much.

Emma gulped and gasped when they lost themselves in each other's flesh, leaning forward onto Killian's chest as he wrapped his arms around her back, holding her close, his breath against her cheek, their mouths finding their way for another musing kiss. At last she rolled off, settling next to him, pressed against his side as he pulled out the quilt and shook it out to cover them both. She settled her head into the hollow of his shoulder, knuckling the tears out of her eyes. She felt shaken to her bones, laid bare in every imaginable sense of the word. She wanted to weep and never stop, she wanted to be at rest in the sea herself. Wanted to blow on the wind, to rise like the morning star, to fall like the evening. It felt too much for one heart and one body to bear.

And yet. She was not alone, and no matter what, she would not be again. They were too inextricably united for that, in some simple, transcendent truth. As if she said that she loved Killian only because there was no other word for it, and that was the closest she could come to explaining such a more-than-mortal feeling. And here, now, just as much they had done on that first night together, no matter if this then might be the very last, they slept.

* * *

They were woken by the sound of shouting. Feet pounded outside, the ship's bell clanged, and as Emma rolled over, willing with all her might for the morning not to have come just yet, there was a loud and harried rapping on the cabin door, which then burst open. "Captain. Captain!"

Killian stirred with a start, sitting up as Emma pulled the sheet around her chest. "What?"

"The men spotted a Navy frigate, less than a bell off. Dunno how Rogers got the information already, but he did. He's coming after us, the _Walrus_ has to be away immediately if she's got any chance of outrunning him. He's got the wind and the faster ship. Swan has to get over to Flint right now."

Emma's stomach turned an unpleasant flip. There was no way to be sure how Rogers had acquired the knowledge of the gold's new location so dangerously ahead of schedule, but then, he had his own spies crawling over the island and was likely impatient for any hint as to whether or not the terms would be fulfilled. She pushed away the momentary, terrible suspicion that had occurred to her, and vaulted out of bed, dressing as fast as she could, as Killian did the same. The two of them hurried on deck together, to the men gathered at the railing with the spyglass and pointing at the white sails of the approaching vessel, as Killian gave terse orders for their own canvas to be raised and evasive action taken – after all, they needed to be sure that Rogers would chase the _Walrus,_ not the _Jolie._ There was a boat waiting to ferry Emma to the former, and Killian helped her over the side, the trembling in his fingers making it clear how afraid he was to let her go. "Bloody hell, Emma. Be safe."

"You too." Emma looked up at him, their gazes locking, even as she heard the whistle and splash that meant Rogers had ordered his gunners to start trying the range. "Killian, I – I love you. Please. Please come back to me."

"Christ." His arms were around her, their mouths finding each other's once and then again in a fevered, frantic goodbye kiss, as she wrapped both arms around his shoulders and for a brief, timeless moment, there was nothing in all of existence but the two of them. "I love you too, Emma. I love you always. Come back. Come back."

In answer, Emma cupped his face and kissed him one more time, even as she felt the urgent tug on her boot that meant they had to go now. She could taste the salt of his tears or her own on her lips as she pressed his hand to her heart, kissed his fingers as he did the same with her, closing them over her palm as if to keep it caught there like a small bird in a cage. Then – it felt like tearing herself in half, like handing Geneva away to Regina, but almost worse – she pulled back and hung on as the boat launched, they shot down the _Jolie_ , and hit the water. She could see Killian growing smaller and smaller as the men pulled the oars, his gaze never leaving her face even as the _Jolie_ fell away behind. It seemed branded on Emma's soul, unshakable, unforgettable. As if the world could and very well might end this very minute, but her memory of this moment, this parting, would endure into the darkness.

The _Walrus_ was already moving when they reached it, and it took Emma a few tries to catch hold of the rope thrown down to her; it kept slipping out of the boat from the force of their wake. But she finally grabbed it, the wet hemp abrading her hands, threatening to wipe away the sensation of Killian's last kiss, and braced herself as she was hauled up the side, somersaulting onto the deck. To her great surprise, she recognized the hauler: none other than Macintosh, who must have finally decided to join Flint's crew permanently after his various stops following the destruction of the _Blackbird._ He gave her a hand to her feet. "Good to see ye again, Cap'n."

Emma startled both of them further by hugging him, briefly and fiercely. "Where's Merida?"

"Insisted on goin' back to the _Jolie_ for the attack on Nassau. Wants to fight redcoats personally, the daft wee lassie." Macintosh managed a smile. "She wouldna listen to me when I told her it was foolish. Your man will look after her then, eh?"

"I'm sure he will." Emma straightened up, then ducked again reflexively as a shot fell short – but not that short – of their aft quarters. "Jesus, Rogers is still gaining?"

"Aye, he's cock-first up our arses, the perverted bugger." Macintosh's lips went thin. "Be bloody curious to know just who so happened to pass the information to him that the gold was moved, and gave him the jump on us, right as we were tryin' to get a head start. Someone, say, who was at the moot last night. Heard all our plans, and was the one to publicly challenge them. And, it also so happens, isn't here any more."

Emma stared at him, a terrible cold feeling creeping over her, even more so since this aligned all too well with her earlier unworthy moment of suspicion. "You can't be suggesting that _Billy_ sold us out to Rogers?"

"Can I no?" Macintosh looked at her grimly. "I ken ye are – were, at least – friends with the man. But I've been on the _Walrus,_ and ye havena. I've seen it brewin'. Last night was only the inevitable outcome. Billy's come to hate Flint more and more, even considerin' his torture by that sick bastard Hume – the torture we _rescued_ him from, the bleedin' ingrate. If he thought he could leverage something from Rogers, why not come to him with this prime piece of intelligence and give them both a shot at endin' Flint? Enemy of my enemy is my friend. Billy's probably justified it to himself. Got it all worked out. If Flint is captured and hanged, he canna do any more damage, and Rogers might be convinced to spare the other prisoners, if he has Flint to make an example of. Ye have to admit it's neat. Bloody clever. Get the Navy to exact Billy's revenge for him, take Flint down once and for all, and all the men whose lives he might save would be grateful to him. Even Woodes fuckin' Rogers owes him a favor. Diabolical."

Emma couldn't answer. Macintosh's theory struck a sickening note of truth on every chord, and she could see for herself that Billy was not among the men scuttling across the _Walrus'_ deck and loading the guns. If Rogers kept closing the gap, this would come to a shootout long before they could get him out to open water and have any chance of gutting him on a rock or reef or sandbar, as well as give the others any time to fight in Nassau without his interference. She remained frozen a moment longer, then whirled on her heel. "Take the wheel. You used to handle the _Blackbird_ on these chases with the Navy. You can keep us just ahead."

"Last one we outran like this was the _Valiant."_ Macintosh raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That was a sixth-rater too, but the _Blackbird_ was faster and shallower on the draft. I'll do me best, but _–_ "

"Whatever you have to do." Emma pushed away the irony of the fact that the _Valiant_ had been commanded by Captain Colter, Regina's first love, and that had been the genesis of the other woman's grudge against her. Any number of things seemed to be coming ominously full circle. "It's likely far too much to hope for another convenient storm, but we can pray."

Considering the circumstances of Sam's death, that abruptly caught in her throat, as if she should be very careful what she wished for, and she bit her tongue, wishing she could take it back. Too late. For his part, Macintosh raised the other eyebrow, as if to say that praying for a miracle might indeed be their only option, but he went for the helm, and Emma for the cabin. Flint and Silver were inside, poring over the charts and having some sort of spirited disagreement, but they looked up at her entrance. "Well?" Flint said. "Any ideas how to scrape off the son of a bitch?"

"Working on it." Emma had to catch her balance as the floor tilted sharply. Evidently, Macintosh was taking to heart her advice to try any inventive maneuver he could think of. "We have to get Rogers out of range, but we can't lose him entirely. We need to keep him thinking he's just about to catch us, stretch out the pursuit."

Flint and Silver exchanged a look. Another whistle and splash echoed outside the window. Then Silver said, "If there's anything we can afford to send overboard – extra cargo, supplies, ballast – the lighter we can get, the faster we can – "

"In that case," Flint said. "There's a fucking obvious candidate, isn't there?"

Emma and Silver stared at him blankly, until the latter got it first. "What? No. No, you can't be suggesting that we throw the Spanish treasure into the sea. Bloody hell, this entire gambit was designed to avoid having to give it back! You said yourself we couldn't even think of – "

"We aren't giving it back, are we?" Flint looked blackly amused. "There are twelve chests of solid gold and silver bullion, gems, ingots, and other precious items in our hold. Even one contains more money than we are likely to have need of in a lifetime. Dumping the rest would take off close to a ton of weight. Rogers is welcome to call off the chase and dive overboard, if he thinks he can get them. But he can't stop us from doing it, from denying it to him outright, forcing his hand. No one can."

"Are you _mad?"_ Silver looked as if he supposed he didn't need to ask the question, but did nonetheless. "Ask the men to just throw all these unfathomable riches into the deep? And have you even thought what – "

"I'm the safeguard for that gold," Emma broke in. "If it gets lost, if it doesn't come back for any reason, Vane will – I don't know what he'll do to me, but it won't be good. That's why I had to come along in the first place. There has to be another – "

"Rogers will kill Madi," Silver interrupted, the two of them talking over each other. "And Rackham and the others, but he'll bloody _kill_ her and – "

"Not if he doesn't make it back to Nassau." Flint seemed entirely unmoved by their chorus of condemnation. "Either of you have a better idea for lightening our load?"

"Vane will – "

"Vane's not the only one who might just have to lose something – some _things –_ bloody dear to him." Flint's face was dead white, his eyes like hollow tunnels. "The sea took Sam away from us, Emma. Why is it that it can't take Vane's gold too? For fucking certain he doesn't actually love any other person. He might have loved Eleanor once, aye, but she's betrayed us. Why does he get to keep anything else? Why do any of us?"

"James." Emma reached for his hand, but he jerked it back. "You know Sam wouldn't want – "

"We don't know what Sam would want, do we?" Flint's voice was close to a roar. "Because he's dead! Because he's dead, and so is Miranda, and likely the rest of us anyway, so what does it matter if we get rid of the gold or not? Besides, Sam himself reminded us that he was no angel, that he was as fully capable of wishing death and destruction on his enemies as any of us! He was the one who refused any notion of a pardon, of ever giving up this life, and I bloody wish I had listened to him! If I had, if I had never even thought of Charlestown and Ashe and that there was any fucking _chance_ of it, this would never have happened! Miranda and Sam might still be alive. But they're not. They're _not!"_

Emma opened and shut her mouth, heartsick, as Flint once more snatched away from her. Silver looked mildly stunned but still stubborn, as there was another, closer-sounding boom past the hull. It was clear that if they weren't going to take his suggestion to ditch the treasure, something else had to give, and both of them had a sensation of Flint as an inferno burning at full and devouring blast, consuming all light and air and collapsing down and down into a void. In that moment, Emma almost wondered if Billy was right, and approaching even a man as dangerous as Woodes Rogers was a necessary risk to stop Flint before he incinerated the entire world. But Rogers was no better, would calmly eradicate everyone she cared about in the name of law and order and the triumph of civilization, and the moment of truth was upon her. Agree with Flint, and order the treasure – most of it, at any rate – thrown overboard, or oppose him, and –

Just then, a new set of guns thundered fairly near at hand, and the _Walrus_ rocked and skewed – but Emma didn't think that they had been hit, or that the volley had been aimed at them. She, Flint, and Silver spun to stare at each other, and then – dilemma briefly forgotten in their haste – they spilled out of the cabin and onto the deck, awash in acrid gunsmoke, shouting men, and splinters from where one of Rogers' shots had clipped them. But it wasn't Rogers who commanded their attention. That would be the newly arrived ship that had just opened fire, sailing on a direct intercept between the _Walrus_ and the pursuing Navy frigate, and which everyone recognized at once. The one and only _Queen Anne's Revenge._ Bloody _hell._

"Blackbeard?" Flint said incredulously, voicing the general sentiment. "Jesus Christ. I thought he was sacking Antigua?"

"He was going to try." Emma spoke tersely, gaze never wavering, as she wasn't sure if this apparently opportune materialization was all that opportune or not. Blackbeard had wanted to sack Antigua very much, yes, but he had also made no secret of his desire to destroy the _Windsor,_ his old ship, in recompense for the crimes of Captain George King, and gave exactly none of a well-polished shit that David Nolan was now in command of her instead. If Blackbeard was in the neighborhood, that most likely meant either that he was chasing or had already taken and sunk the _Windsor,_ and that Nolan might never have made it to Antigua with the charges and evidence of Gold's treason. If so, everything that Sam, Killian, and Emma had done to identify and expose Gold's illicit association with the Star Chamber went for nothing, and they had lost their last and best chance to take him down. Nothing. _Nothing._

At that, something close to madness took hold of Emma. She clutched the rail, determined not to buckle under to the brief and wild impulse to order the _Walrus_ to turn her guns on the _Revenge._ There was no proof, and any number of things could have happened instead. At least the unexpected advent of another well-armed enemy was giving the Navy frigate serious second thoughts about continuing the pursuit – which was not actually a good thing, since that was their entire strategy – and peering through the spyglass, Emma thought she could spot Rogers shouting at someone on the forecastle. She clicked it closed, a reckless fury burning through her, and turned to Macintosh. "Go below," she ordered. "Get one of the treasure chests, and bring it up here. I want Rogers to see it."

He goggled at her, as did Silver, both of them clearly wondering if Flint's insanity was contagious, but after a moment, he snapped his mouth shut, spun on his heel, and vanished into the hold, having corralled a nearby crewman to help. They returned in short order with one of the heavy chests, lugging it between them with muttered Scots oaths on Macintosh's part, boosting it up onto the hatch cover. With a shot across the bow to make sure Rogers was paying attention (and for that matter, Blackbeard) Flint chinked open the lock with a few brutal blows and let the gleam of gold catch the sun, thus to ensure that if Rogers had any thoughts about calling off the chase, it would be an exceedingly costly decision, literally. A murmur spread across the _Walrus_ at the sight of it, and all at once, there was no more fire from the Navy frigate – Rogers would clearly not risk hitting them and sinking it. Now he had to do what they wanted him to: chase them and recapture it with a hand-to-hand boarding party, rather than long-range gunfire. And if he was not prepared to take that risk, he'd just have to watch it sail away.

With that, Flint slammed the lid shut, looped the broken lock back in and jammed it into place, and divided a very deliberate look among the crowd, as if to ask who else wanted to question his strategy now. The fact that it had been, strictly speaking, Emma's idea to bring up the treasure was insignificant, and Flint was not about to waste time over it. Especially not when once more, he had the advantage.

While Rogers was thus briefly in confusion about what to do, the _Walrus_ and the _Revenge_ began to stretch the distance, finally getting clear of even the long nines, and when the frigate was a small shape on the horizon, they drew close in hopes of a parlay. They did not have to wait long, as that glimpse of Spanish treasure had also alerted Blackbeard to the fact that there was a profitable opportunity which he should do something about. "Well?" he said, as soon as they were face to face. "How much of the haul do you have?"

"Who says we have the haul at all?" Flint, of course, was not nearly about to let slip such a literally valuable piece of information. "And even if so, what the fuck makes you think you get to have anything to do with it? We knew exactly what we were doing, before you waltzed into the middle of it and nearly ruined everything. So piss off wherever you were going, and – "

"The Navy was shooting at you, mate." Blackbeard raised a bushy eyebrow. "Getting them off your arse would normally rate _some_ thanks."

"The Navy was _supposed_ to be shooting at us, you – "

"Captain Thatch," Emma broke in, before this could get any further out of hand. Rogers still had the wind, was still making up distance, and they had only fifteen minutes or so before they would have to move again. "What did you do in Antigua? Did you attack the _Windsor,_ or Captain David Nolan? He had extremely important intelligence on Robert Gold, if you stopped him from – "

"And since when do we count on the Navy to serve as our scurrying page boys?" Blackbeard was unmoved. "But as it happens, the reason I'm back around here is because I've been chasing the _Windsor,_ yes. In the meantime, I've had a few modest successes against the merchant shipping in the Leewards, and the Navy frigates in the Jamaican corridor. This war is being fought on other fronts than Nassau alone, you know."

"Modest," Emma repeated, suspecting either that Blackbeard's definition of the word was vastly different from the usual, or he was deliberately underselling his accomplishments for negotiation purposes. "Is the _Windsor_ returning this way, then? Did she make it to Antigua the first time?" There existed the unpleasant – indeed, the unpleasantly plausible – possibility that David had arrived, delivered his infelicitous intelligence, and been snapped up like a fat robin with a worm, as Gold must have realized that his letter had been stolen and made immediate plans to cover his tracks. If so, David could be moldering in an Antiguan gaol-cell – possibly the same one they had put Sam in, just for that extra irony – and command of the _Windsor_ reassigned to a loyal man who would be certain to follow orders, and put the powerful third-rater properly to work in the war effort. After the Navy had already lost the _Imperator,_ they would be especially keen to avoid further egg on their faces, and the problem of another sixty guns either in the pirates' hands or at least not actively thwarting them, by ensuring that the same did not befall the _Windsor._ If so, they could not tell Blackbeard to refrain from sinking her (whether or not this would make a difference anyway) if what had always been a flimsy gambit had finally fallen through.

"Well?" Emma pressed. "Did she?"

Blackbeard shrugged. "Fucked if I know. I can tell you, nothing I've heard makes it sound as if that bastard Gold has been anywhere close to overthrown. In any event, since it wears on your maidenly scruples to do so, and because I can see our present conundrum as much as you, I'll make you a deal. Half that treasure, and I'll take that Navy ship down for you. Give you time to do whatever you want with the rest of it, and make it back to Nassau. Shorten the odds a bit for whichever of your lot you've left back there – Bellamy or Rackham or Hook, I presume. Or – "

"That's not just any bloody Navy ship," Flint said, icily as a frozen lake. "That's Woodes Rogers. _Governor_ Woodes Rogers."

"Even better then, eh? I sink him, the war's all but over. Take him prisoner, that is, and sink his ship, but there you have it. Or did you not care for the thought of sharing your glory? Wanted it to be your achievement alone?" Blackbeard's eyes were sharp in his ruddy, windburned face. "He can't match the _Revenge._ I run forty guns, he has at most twenty. By the way, where's Charles? You heard anything of him?"

"Back in Nassau, actually. He and Hook are leading that attack. And for that matter, trying to rescue Jack Rackham from the English."

"Calico Jack, the chinless wonder?" Blackbeard snorted. "I've never understood why a man like Charles kept that one around. Of all of us that could be kidnapped, I'd say he's the best option we could have chosen."

"It's complicated," Emma said, glancing nervously sidelong at Rogers' ship. Under ten minutes until they very much needed to keep going, sooner if they wanted a decent head start, and she turned to Flint. "This is already hard enough for us, no need to make it harder. If we can get Blackbeard to take out Rogers for half the treasure, that's not a terrible bargain. Hide the rest of it, make it back to Nassau, help Killian and Vane. If all goes well, we recapture the island, and have all the bargaining position with both Spain and England we could ask for."

Flint gazed at her bleakly, as if to ask what in their recent history made her think that such a fortuitous outcome was remotely possible, but after a moment, he jerked his head once. He and Blackbeard could not formally shake on the deal, as they were still aboard their respective ships, but they spat in their palms and held them up as signal of agreement. Then a dozen burly members of the _Revenge's_ crew swung across to the _Walrus_ and disappeared into the hold, as Blackbeard was evidently not about to perform this service on credit. It took long enough to set Emma's nerves on edge – Rogers' ship was now close enough that if it had been a usual fight, he would have started firing again, and it was still slightly perplexing that he wasn't. But the _Revenge_ men finally reappeared, heaved six chests of the Spanish treasure onto the deck of their own ship with pulleys, ropes, thumps and crashes, and clambered back over. Rogers himself must have surely witnessed this transaction, and must also be wondering why in creation the pirates were stopping to juggle treasure loads on the very precipice of a pitched battle. But hopefully he would also think that that was all of it, and he could conveniently recapture it if and when he took the _Revenge._ Or –

Still, though. At this close vantage, something looked strange about the Navy frigate – Emma caught a glimpse of the gilted lettering on the bow and the carved figurehead, and saw that its name was HMS _Rose._ There weren't any men visible on the deck, the sails were loose and slacking, and smoke was rising from the hatch covers. The braces were out of the capstan, and the deck was in general disarray. They stared at it, less than a thousand yards away and drifting slightly, as Flint could be observed wondering if he had just paid far too much for a service that was about to be accomplished essentially for free. (Easier when it was his biggest rival's money, but still.) "Explosion in the powder magazine?" he guessed, glancing at Emma. "That could have disabled her like that, but – "

"We didn't hear any explosion." Emma felt something strange and cold on the back of her neck. "James, come on, we need to go. Right now."

Blackbeard looked over at them from the deck of the _Revenge_. "Go on, Flint," he called. "I think my lads and I can handle this just fine. Still, might be some mop-up work later, if that interests you. Or you can sit back and watch how to do this properly."

"Come _on."_ Emma pulled on Flint's arm. "Now!"

With a final stare between the _Revenge_ and the _Rose,_ Flint spun around, barked at the helmsman to pull them away, and ordered the others up the shrouds to loose full canvas. The wind caught them abruptly, pushing them hard across the water, the half-ton reduction in their weight certainly noticeable. Flint himself remained where he was, clearly chafing at first being bilked and then all but gift-wrapping such a legendary triumph for Blackbeard. When this story got told and retold, it would surely feature a perilous chasing-down and duel to the death, rather than all but strolling aboard unopposed. And yet, something was still not sitting quite right with Emma. This wounded-fawn act, if that was what it was. After their last encounter with Rogers, nothing could be ruled out, and all she wanted was distance between them and that ship.

A small sandbar island, and then another, soon appeared and had to be navigated around, which also had the effect of cutting off the line of sight behind them to the _Revenge_ and the _Rose._ There still had been no sound of cannons, the echo of which carried very well over water, so whatever was going on, it was not an ordinary battle. When the two ships had vanished altogether in the white glare of sea and sky, Silver was the one to turn to Flint and Emma. "Very well, that worked far better than I imagine any of us anticipated. Now find us somewhere to stash the rest of it, and let's get the fuck back to Nassau."

Emma could detect a certain personal edge in Silver's eagerness to return, which she of course shared with her desire to return to Killian as soon as possible. So she ducked back into the cabin with Flint and pulled out one of the older charts, feeling a pang of loss for the _Blackbird_ and its wealth of information on such secret bogs and byways. After extensive consultation, they finally determined that there might be a possibility that lay north by northeast from here, one of the caches used in Captain Henry Avery's day, a rugged spit well out in the Atlantic with the foreboding name of Skeleton Island. The exact coordinates were rather (and most likely for such a place, deliberately) murky, but this was the sort of thing that Emma had made her name on. She fetched Macintosh to have a look, he agreed that he could likely hack it if they took at least a rough heading, and they struck out.

They sailed for the rest of the day and well into the night. The mood aboard the _Walrus_ was still tense, as well as increasingly angry as the news of Billy's apparent betrayal spread, and there was a certain proprietary feeling that they had given away enough of the treasure now, thanks, especially if it was going to result in Blackbeard getting to obnoxiously gloat every time he saw them. Silver would have been pacing if he had two good legs, and it was clear that this was already taking much longer than he wanted. For her part, Emma tried to settle down in the stuffy cabin, but rest was very far away, especially with the shadowed shape of Flint sitting at the table by the dim light of a lantern and drinking his way steadily through a bottle of rum. Once or twice, Emma heard something that sounded almost like a muffled sob, but it was so quiet that it was impossible to be sure, and she knew that Flint was too raw to tolerate any more attempts at comfort. So she merely lay there, pretending to sleep.

At some point, this must have finally turned into real sleep, because she woke with a start in pearly-grey predawn light. Flint was gone, and she rolled over stiffly, swinging her legs over the side, pulling on her boots, and knotting her tangled hair off her neck. The air was so steamy that it felt like a Turkish bathhouse, sticking her clothes to her as if she had been caught in a downpour and billowing through the cabin and across the deck as she stepped outside. The _Walrus_ was cutting a track through otherwise mirror-glass water, and she could hear a faint, raucous chorus of birds. Not just gulls. Birds meant land, which meant –

Emma climbed up into the forecastle, and felt her breath catch. For a fabled pirate haunt of yesteryear, Skeleton Island – as it plainly was – did look the part. They were entering a narrow mouth that cut between two lofty, steep-sided bluffs, summits obscured in the thick mist and the shore rocks sharp enough to tear out their hull if they were not quite careful about navigation. According to the sketchy description in the logs, this channel led a considerable distance inland to the deepwater lagoon at the center, one of the two "eyes" of the skull that gave the island its name. This eye was surrounded by thick jungle on three sides, leading up to a formidable labyrinth of waterfalls, caves, and other opportune places for an adventurous swashbuckler to deposit a secret cache. There were also several legends to the effect that this island had swallowed said swashbucklers along with their stash, which Emma put firmly out of her head.

That reminded her, however, that there was still the ticklish question of who was going to know the location of this one. She would have to, as she was the person entrusted to convey it back to Vane (notwithstanding the small fact that they had given half of it to Blackbeard – but Vane and Blackbeard were partners, more or less, so this was not the worst choice of alternative custodians). Whoever buried it would have to know as well, and somehow avoid becoming a target for their peers who would be after them to cough it up. Flint was not liable to agree to be left out of the reckoning, nor was Silver. And considering the service they had done, the _Walrus'_ crew were not likely to forego a generous commission for themselves. With Billy's accusations that they only ever did anything as it pleased Flint still close at hand, they by no means would have been forgotten, especially when half a dozen chests of a lot of money were involved.

Just then, a hand on her back startled the living daylights out of her, and she whirled around, biting a yelp, to see Flint looking down at her. "I've been thinking," he said quietly, after a glance to ensure that they were alone apart from Macintosh, drowsing at the wheel at the other end of the ship. "I don't think you should know the location of the treasure stash."

Considering that she had of course just been thinking about that exact topic, Emma briefly wondered if Flint had developed the capacity to read minds, which did not seem out of the question. "What? No. I have to. Do you think Vane is going to take your word for it alone as to wherever it ends up hidden? I'm the – "

"The guarantor, yes," Flint completed, sounding as if he had been anticipating this argument. "As for that, the plan has already changed once, and I don't doubt it will change again before this is through. But Emma, think about it. As long as you know the location, you will never be safe. Half of these poxy halfwits will take it into their heads to threaten you or hunt you down until you give them the bearings, and probably force you along to ensure their accuracy. It's doubtful whether you would survive such a venture or not, and I'd wager the latter. If you want any hope of leaving this life behind for good, if you ever want the past to stay where it belongs and not haunt you for the rest of your days, you'd prefer to remain safely ignorant."

Emma stared up at him. She couldn't deny that this argument made a certain amount of morbid sense, but she was far too well acquainted with Flint to think that it came without a heaping helping of ulterior motives. "Is that what you really want? To protect me?"

He regarded her coolly. "Is that so unbelievable?"

Emma supposed that all things considered, it might not be, as she had been the one encouraging him to remember that he had others left to live for. Still, just as with the _Rose's_ apparent desertion and destruction, there was something niggling her. "But you'll still know the spot?"

"I have nothing left to lose." Flint said it almost simply, matter-of-factly. "You do."

Emma held his gaze for a long moment, wishing that she could put aside that last qualm, do for him as she had urged him to do with her, and trust him unconditionally. Miranda had, and Flint surely loved Miranda more than enough to make Emma at least reasonably certain that that forbearance and protection extended to her. But now, at the end, after everything, she couldn't quite get all the way, cross that final bridge. Agree, but with her eyes wide open.

"Fine," she said. "I won't know it."

Flint paused, then nodded. He descended the forecastle and crossed the deck, then took over on the wheel from Macintosh, who was clearly hankering for the chance to go below and fall into his hammock. Emma herself made for the cabin in search of food, if Flint had any and not just rum, then jumped as the door shut with a clunk behind her and she turned to confront her second unexpected audience of the morning. "So," John Silver enquired. "What did he say to you?"

"Excuse me?" Emma eyed him warily. "Do I have to tell you?"

"I suppose not." Silver smiled, but without his usual flippant edge, and it never reached his eyes. "But it might be useful if you did. You and I are more on the same side of things than you and Flint, Emma. We both want to get back to Nassau, and soon. Flint. . . doesn't."

"What? So you're trying to feel me out for the possibility of – I don't know, what exactly are you proposing?" Emma's tone was cool. "Willing to stand with Flint at the moot when Billy was challenging him, but now that the chips are down, you're having second thoughts?"

"Just hear me out." Silver hobbled nearer, seating himself heavily in the chair. "Believe me, I am not a monster. I am not unsympathetic to Captain Flint's losses. But you and I can both see that he's at the end of his rope, and does not particularly care what happens either to him or any of us. You and I want to get back to Nassau as soon as possible, to do it in some state that leaves us at least marginally prepared for a future, and for whatever fight it takes to achieve it."

"This is about Madi." Emma could honestly say that she had not expected that, not from someone as relentlessly self-interested as Silver. "You genuinely care for her, don't you?"

Silver made a fist, then flattened it on the scarred wood of the tabletop, in a gesture reminiscent of Flint's. "I don't think she's acceptable collateral damage, no. Even outside of her value to the Maroons and whatever slender chance we have of pulling this off. Flint, on the other hand, doesn't care whether she lives or dies, or at least if he does, he's hiding it spectacularly. He might care slightly more about Hook, but only slightly, and if Vane tripped on a molehole and broke his neck tomorrow, you know he'd shed no tears. He has nothing left holding him to Nassau personally, and you and I both know that Flint's fight is always personal. He'll be happy to stay out here for days, even weeks, if that was what it took to outsmart Rogers and consolidate his advantage with the treasure. We can't afford it."

"So?" The same as she had with Flint, Emma could see the sense on the face of this, but had to probe carefully for whatever else was running beneath the surface. "What are you asking me to do?"

Silver looked at her directly. "Nothing, right now. Only to think whether you'll choose Hook, or your loyalty to Mrs. Barlow's memory. I know you cared about her, and about Flint by extension. But if it comes to a decision between returning to Nassau and saving Hook's life, or staying here and possibly letting him die, I think I know which one you'll pick."

"And what? He's your friend, is that what you're going to say? Your father held him and Liam in bondage, he – "

"That was my father's crime." Silver's voice was very cool. "Not mine. Both of you seem determined to hold a grudge against me for wanting away from everything I used to be with all my heart, the same as the Jones boys. As if I somehow did them an eternal wrong by not jeopardizing my own escape with theirs – what the fuck was I supposed to do? I was a child too. And Liam killed my father and his crew anyway, so if I'd stayed, I would have drowned with them. It doesn't matter. We've all ended up here. If I'm being honest, Flint's my friend far more than Hook is, and yet I don't have any illusions about what he is capable of. I don't _want_ to ask you to decide between Hook and Miranda, but I also don't want you to think that it might not come down to that. And in that case, only one of them is alive to thank you for it."

Emma had no response for that, for Silver's quiet but undeniable anger, at the knowledge that he could very well be right. They remained staring at each other across the table, the weird misty shadows shifting in the morning haze, as the _Walrus_ continued to sail down the channel into the depths of this fey place. "We'll get back to Nassau," she said at last, aware that she had promised one thing to Flint and now had to promise another to Silver, but seeing no other path in either case. "We'll save Madi and Killian. I just don't want that to involve sacrificing Flint."

"I don't either. For what it's worth." Silver ran a hand over his scruffy dark beard, looking tired. "But I'm not entirely sure that he'll give us a choice."

Emma opened her mouth, was interrupted by a shout from outside, and peering through the cabin window, could see that they appeared to have reached their destination. She hesitated, then gave Silver a hand to his feet, and they emerged with the rest of the crew to take a good look at the eye of the skull. There was a narrow strip of beach that could serve for a landing spot, and the lagoon water was almost completely calm, the rich color of a priceless sapphire. "Take a sounding," Flint ordered. "I want to know how deep it is."

The line was retrieved and thrown overboard, then finally drawn back up with the result that it was at least sixty fathoms, and they had run out of rope before being able to know for certain. There were places in the Caribbean known as blue holes, where the bottom fell out of the ocean among surrounding shallower water, and it seemed that they were currently afloat directly above one of them, which meant they could not put down anchor in the traditional fashion. This would not be much of a problem, as they could hardly drift far, but still would require vigilance to make sure that they didn't get too friendly with the sharp coral spines closer in. God, this place was desolate. Presumably other pirates had been here in the past, but there was no hint of them at all, that the _Walrus'_ crew was anything other than the very first human beings to lay eyes on it, and it was giving Emma the shivers. She would have wanted the hell out of here, now, even without the incentive of assuring Killian's safety and success back in Nassau. She devoutly hoped that Flint was not planning to linger.

Whatever he _was_ planning, at any rate, was (as usual) unclear. He calmly divided the crew into six teams, each to find a separate location to hide a chest, which was – Emma had to admit – a solid strategy. Each man was thus clued in on one, would therefore not feel the need to shake down the rest of the crew for information on a share, and could consider himself integral to the overall effort. Since they did not want to be tramping through unfamiliar and potentially dangerous jungle while slowed down with heavy loads, they would run their scouting mission first, find their spot, and then return to get their trunk. Indeed, this solution was so uncharacteristically democratic that Emma had to wonder – especially when Flint announced that he would be staying behind to keep an eye on the _Walrus._ All that effort to convince her to forego knowing the treasure's location, and he wasn't going to accompany at least one of the teams to find a hiding place? Emma was not particularly keen to do it herself, especially considering how much she already disliked this hellhole, but she almost wondered if she should. If nothing else, because it might startle Flint into showing his hand. _Might._

Silver, however, noted at once that he was no good at long and physically taxing slogs on one leg, would also stay behind, and Emma knew that he had detected some potential mischief he wanted to keep an eye on. That decided her on the same, as she wasn't sure it was a wise idea to leave Flint and Silver alone with no supervision, and after some further haggling, the six teams started going ashore. As she watched them clamber out of the ship's boat and start up the sand toward the impenetrable trees, the chill clutched Emma's spine more ferociously than ever. "James," she said in an undertone. "I don't want to be wrong for trusting you."

Flint raised a coppery eyebrow, as if to say that if she wanted to make that decision, he was surely no one to stop her. Then he threw an irritated glance at Silver, who had stationed himself pointedly nearby with the clear intention of clinging to him like a barnacle. "What? Think I'll go up in a cloud of purple smoke and turn out to actually be Rogers if you look away?"

"No." Silver didn't budge. "But Miss Swan and I were both wondering why you would so easily give up your chance to choose the hiding spot for at least one of the chests. Nor has it escaped us that at the moment – with the crew all ashore, spread out, and the treasure still here on the _Walrus –_ the only man who is currently in command of it is. . . you."

Something flickered across Flint's face at that, too obliquely to be sure what. All he said, however, was, "Then you can't count very well. By my reckoning, there are three of us."

"Two and one doesn't always add up to three." Silver continued to stare him down. "You know, this doesn't have to be a drawn-out guessing game. You could just tell us what you're doing."

" _Us?"_ Flint's lip curled. "What, you think she's on your side now?"

"I'm on my own side." Emma's heart was starting to pick up. "But I also want to know what you're doing. You could just leave it this way. Let the men each stash one of the chests, we get out of here, we go back to Nassau. If Blackbeard managed to capture Rogers, we could even have a real chance. Please, James. Please. Don't let this all be for nothing."

Flint jerked slightly, but did not respond. It was left to Silver, staring at him in a kind of horrified fascination, to finally speak. "You have no intention of going back to Nassau, do you?" he said. "You never have, from the moment you somehow convinced Charles Vane to let you load his treasure onto your ship and sail away with it. If I am not much mistaken, you also have no intention of letting anyone else have it. That was why you insisted on finding out how deep it was here. It was your plan all along to dump it, not something you thought up on a whim about lightening our load. Keep one chest, the whereabouts of which only you would know, and throw the rest away, a final middle finger to the Spanish, the English, and Vane alike. And then. . . what? Jesus Christ, what? Suicide by mob? Enrage the crew so much when they discovered it that they would go ahead and finally kill you in some inventive fashion, what they've only barely been prevented from doing for so long? _What?"_

Once more, a muscle worked in Flint's cheek. But he still said nothing.

"No." Emma uttered the word almost by reflex, not wanting to believe it. "James, no. Everything that's left for you, for us, for the war – "

"Fuck the war." Flint spoke at last, his voice sounding as rusty as if it had been torn out of him. "I was going to help end it anyway, by taking Rogers, before Edward fucking Thatch turned up and sent everything sideways. That was how I intended to go out. I killed Hume, I killed Ashe, I killed Hornigold, I brought the Maroons to Nassau, and lastly, I meant to capture Rogers and leave it to you to sort out what the fuck to do with him and the future you still somehow think is possible. I've done my part, and more than that. I'm finished. I'm through. I have nothing left to give, or lose, or hope for, or do. So don't you _dare_ fucking ask it of me."

Emma almost cringed at the raw, lashing agony in his voice, the utter and complete emptiness on his face, as she took an involuntary step toward him. But he moved away from her, as even Silver seemed momentarily stymied. Then Emma said, "When you didn't want me to go with the others to know the treasure's location – what does it matter, if you were always intending to ditch it? What you said about protecting me – is – is that even what you meant?"

"Aye." Flint's green eyes resolved on her. "I wanted to protect you, and I wanted you to know the truth. Well then. You think I'm a liar. You both do. I won't deny I've been so, in the past, and I've lived in my deceptions and my ghosts and my masks. This, though. This is the bloody truest thing I've ever done, and I don't care if you can see it that way or not. The less you knew, Emma, about anything, the less you could be blamed for it. I never asked for you to come along on this. You volunteered. And Miranda loved you. This was not what I wanted."

"Not what you wanted?" Emma wasn't sure she entirely liked the sound of that. "You said earlier that the plan had changed. But it hasn't, has it? You're still doing what you meant to do all along. You haven't stopped. But there's time. It's not irreversible. Yet."

Flint simply looked back at her, as if asking if that was supposed to make a difference to him.

"You'd – what? Just suppose the crew would take it for granted that I didn't know anything, when we've been working together this entire time?" Emma had thought she was more or less on top of whatever was going on, but she was realizing how much she wasn't, and it felt like falling into the depths of the very blue hole that yawned beneath them. "You didn't want me to be caught in the crossfire, but that wasn't enough to change your mind about what you were doing. James, listen to me. _Listen to me._ Step down, let me take over as captain for the voyage back, and I won't tell the crew about any of this. We'll still have the gold, we'll still have – "

"I am not," Flint said, quietly and lethally, "going back to Nassau."

"Fine, then. Don't. But let me get the _Walrus_ and her men back. What did you mean to do, burn all of us on your funeral pyre?" Emma's throat felt ashen, as she remembered Miranda using the exact same words to her back on Poseidon's island, as they discussed the possibility of having to leave their men behind to build a new life elsewhere. _But if it should be ultimately and terribly necessary, we should not be asked to sacrifice ourselves on their altars, to burn alive on their funeral pyres. If it is death in Nassau, or life in Boston, you know what we have the responsibility, the dignity, the right to choose._

Flint shrugged. "No, not necessarily. By my calculations, I'd be dead. What happened after that was your concern."

"Jesus," Silver said. "So you'd keep one chest, hide it – presumably while all the men were on shore and distracted – and then ensure that you quite literally took the secret to your grave. So what, subsequent generations could drive themselves mad knowing it was here somewhere, searching for Captain Flint's lost treasure? I can't deny it would be a fitting legacy for a man like you. But you can't. Fuck, you can't. Let Emma and I fix this, and you can still – "

Flint's eyes flicked between them. Then he reached down, grasped hold of his sword, and drew it, bringing the blade up as formally as if to the opening of a duel, awaiting the gauntlet to be thrown, the handkerchief dropped. "I don't," he repeated, "want to hurt either of you."

Emma's hand fell as if in a trance to the hilt of her own sword. Some volition not her own moved to pull it free, even as she thought of how it had begun – a fight on the deck of a ship when this very ship had attacked it, when she and Flint had been strangers and adversaries. She could not stand to think of the possibility that it might also be how it ended, especially now that they were friends and allies – or so at least, until now, she had thought. She knew she could never hurt him either and live with herself, but forced to make ready to defend herself. "James," she said. "James. Please don't make us do this. Miranda – Miranda would never – "

Swords out, they circled each other, as Silver looked at Emma for a long moment, as if to say he had tried to warn her that it was going to come to this. He was, of course, terribly and bitterly correct, but there was no savor in it for either of them. Emma could not bring herself to be the first to strike at Flint, to cross the Rubicon once and for all, as she was utterly sure that this was the last thing either Miranda – or Sam – would have wanted. Flint, for his part, seemed to have the same hesitation, although she could not be exactly sure what his owed itself to. The edges of their blades touched, scraped, but did not quite clash. Emma wanted to throw the sword away, wanted to clutch at Flint, shake him, stop this slow-motion shipwreck somehow. But just then, Silver uttered a sharp noise of surprise which distracted both of them from the world's most half-hearted fight, and they whirled to look. Then stared.

There was a ship visible at the far end of the lagoon, just emerging from the thick fog like a phantom. It was also immediately recognizable: the _Queen Anne's Revenge,_ somewhat the worse for wear but still afloat, and Flint and Emma squinted at it, too confused to immediately get back to the business of squaring off (and possibly relieved). "How the fuck did he get here?" Silver asked. "Aye, well, I suppose he has the same charts as us, he could have made a lucky guess as to where we were bound, but wasn't he off to hunt the _Windsor?"_

"Yes," Emma said slowly. "Yes, he was."

"If he's taken Rogers, though – " Despite himself, a flaring hope flashed across Flint's face, as if he could claim that he was done with the war all he wanted, but he still cared whether or not it was. As if even in his extremity and his uttermost end, that remaining tiny kernel of idealism and belief could not be completely crushed, somewhere deep inside him. Which was why it was somehow worse when the _Revenge_ drew nearer, and nearer still, and something shifted inside Emma like the stroke of a pendulum. Swift and hard and inexorable.

"James," she said. "Wait. Something is – "

Flint wasn't listening. He was looking up at the deck of the pirate ship as if still waiting for Blackbeard to appear, but he didn't. Silver looked aghast, Emma had an absurd impulse to shout, to do something, anything else than seeing what she was seeing. As someone stepped up into the forecastle, but it wasn't Blackbeard. As she knew at once that she had been right, she had been right all along, in her bad feeling about the _Rose_ and all of it. _Jesus._

"Good morning," Woodes Rogers said, a fresh sword cut glistening on his scarred cheek and his sandy brown hair falling loose, half in his eyes. There were crimson stains on his jacket and his waistcoat was torn, but he looked savage, exultant, as he raised a sack for them to see, plunged a hand into it, and drew out the severed head of Captain Edward Thatch, its namesake black beard damp with blood and its eyes staring fixedly. "I was hoping we could talk."

* * *

Killian's face was streaked with soot, his ears still ringing with the thunder of cannons, his boots full of sand and his hand gone numb and blistered where it was clutched around his sword. The blasted pieces of boats littered the sand, along with the sprawled bodies of redcoats and pirates alike. It had been the devil of a fight to reach the beach, even with the assistance of the _Jolie's_ heavy guns, and thick smoke billowed over the harbor, two Navy frigates listing hard to port and the remaining garrison retreating into Nassau in a desperate attempt to hold the fort. As he regarded the scene, Killian could not help but be reminded of what he had done to Antigua and Jamaica, and he was not sure that this was, at the end of the day, quantifiably different. At least this time, he was more or less certain of the side he was fighting for, and why he was fighting, but this was still sheer and simple brutality, and not something for which he would ever easily excuse himself again.

A shout of his name turned his head, breaking him from his troubled reverie, and he turned to see Vane's quartermaster, Edward England, hurrying down the sand toward him. England was the one who had met Killian, Emma, Jack, and Anne in Nassau the first time, informed them of Rogers' arrival and the Act of Grace, and taken them to Vane, and Killian could not help but wonder if, considering his surname, he found this entire conflict nearly too ironic to be permitted. But putting that thought aside, Killian turned to the other man, pulling himself together. "Hey! Did Vane make it to the others? Rackham? Madi?"

"I'm not sure where Madi is. But they were moving Rackham out of Nassau, they had him in a carriage, Charles and Anne went after him on horseback." England pulled out what looked like one of Jack's ubiquitous calico neckerchiefs and rubbed his dirty face, which had the effect of spreading the grime rather than removing it. "There's been bloody fighting at the fort, and we're on our heels. I was sent to find you and see if you could bring your men as soon as possible."

Killian glanced around at the beach. His men – the surviving ones, as the toll to get ashore had been heavy – were exhausted, sprawled out among the broken boards and piled bodies and the sandbags and smashed driftwood that the redcoats had tried to construct into a makeshift barricade. "I'm not sure they're in fit state for another battle."

"We need the fort," England said urgently. "You're their captain. Rouse them one more time."

"Rogers is still gone, isn't he?" Killian thought they would know if the governor was back, unless he returned across the backside of the island – for that matter, he bloody well hoped that Lancelot had been right about being able to raise the plantation slaves with the memory of their drowned brothers on the _Whydah,_ because the English still had the decided advantage of numbers. They would remember that as soon as they recovered from the smart shock that the _Jolie_ and the _Ranger_ had given them, and without the slaves, the pirates would be pushed back off New Providence Island as quickly as they had taken it. If taking it was even what this could be called. They had a strip of beach and a valiant effort at the fort, and if Vane and Anne had gone by themselves to get Jack, there were any number of ways for that to go wrong.

"Aye, he's gone." England removed a canteen from his belt, took a slug, and tossed it to Killian, who fumbled the cork out and gulped the lukewarm water thirstily. "But he'll have some sort of deputy in his place, and while they might not be as dangerous as him, they'll know their business to a nicety. Indeed, this is the best chance we have, to take Nassau while Rogers is elsewhere. Come on. Get the bastards up. I'll help."

With the application of a lot of cudgeling, cajoling, coaxing, and coercing, Killian and England got the _Jolie's_ men more or less to their feet and in possession of their weapons, and as they climbed the bluff toward the fort, they might even pass for a threatening reinforcement. Killian's own shoulders were shaking as he clawed his hook into the greenery, feeling a stab of pain from his stump and wishing, as he did every other minute, for two good hands. Once, his grip gave way completely, and it was only the quick snatch by England that saved him from a plunge of several dozen feet. "Thanks, mate," Killian panted. "Wouldn't have enjoyed that."

"Didn't think so." England eyed him curiously. "Where're you from? Originally?"

Killian was taken aback, but he thought he could catch the hint of an Irish brogue beneath the other man's educated accent. "County Louth." It stuck in his throat. "I. . . left there young."

"Louth?" England looked still more surprised. "We're all but neighbors, then. I'm a Leinster man myself, Kildare. I'm reckoning, then, you were baptized Catholic?"

Killian looked up sharply, as this could be a dangerous question even among pirates, who did not necessarily forget their old prejudices and mistrust even when they took up the black flag, but England's tone was curious, not condemning. "Aye."

" _Sláinte."_ England raised a cup in an imaginary toast. "You know, Jones. You're not a bad sort. I could use a steady hand and a countryman at my side. You should come with me."

"Come with you?" Killian turned to regard the prospect of the vine-covered bluff again, bracing himself to continue the ascent. "Were you going somewhere?"

"Aye. No matter what happens here, it's plain that the English – and in all bloody likelihood, the Spanish, and whoever else – will never leave Nassau to its own devices again, or make the mistake of overlooking us. Any man with a taste for the pirate's life will need to find it elsewhere. I thought of going to Africa, the Indias, Captain Avery's old haunts, in a sea so broad and uncharted that even the bloody Navy can't catch us. What do you say?"

"I. . ." Killian had to admit, the thought briefly tempted him. Take the _Jolie,_ assuming the old girl survived this madness, and live free forever. Or at least a few years, which was the realistic estimate of how long forever was liable to be for a pirate anywhere. But even as he did, he knew he couldn't accept. He wasn't fighting to return to that life, wasn't going to ask Emma to come with him for a refreshing spot of plundering and brigandage, and there was no question at all of leaving her behind. "It's generous, mate. But I can't accept. Wherever my future is, it's elsewhere."

"You're certain?" England grabbed another vine and checked warily overhead, but they were still concealed in the thick greenery. Another dozen feet or so, though, and they'd be sitting ducks for any soldiers with muskets on the ramparts of the fort. "You're Captain Hook."

Killian grimaced. "Aye. I'll always be him, in a way. And yet, I no longer want to conjure him everywhere, to see his shadow on every doorstep I darken. Tell me, how does an Irish Catholic pirate named England carry that cruel joke?"

"By choosing it." England smiled faintly. "I was born Edward Seegar, you know. I took the surname England when I turned pirate. Just so it would always be clear that England was the one fucking itself."

Killian stared at him, then barked a startled but admiring laugh. "I see."

"We all do that, you know." England turned to look down at him. "Create our new selves, the names we want history to remember and to fear. Captain Flint, Long John Silver, Captain Hook, Blackbeard, Edward England, Black Sam Bellamy, Calico Jack Rackham – the only one of us who hasn't taken something else to him, changed his name somehow, is Charles. He's Charles Vane, pure and plain, no matter which life he lives, and that is how he'll be remembered. The rest of us have our eye on the legends they'll make of us, even if we pretend we don't. You don't get to decide who lives, who dies, and who tells your story, but you can be damn sure to try."

Killian didn't answer, as they were almost to the top and he was going to need all his breath and concentration for fighting. He chanced a glance below him to see that his men were still following, then swung out onto the mossy stone ledge just below the merlons of the fort wall. It was going to be a fiendishly undignified business clambering over without being shot, but there was no flat crack of musket fire from above, no sound at all.

Killian and England frowned at each other, crawled around to the place where the earthen berm met the stones of the wall, and managed to boost themselves over – then as the grisly sight within met their eyes, stopped dead. The tower was silent, except for the buzzing of the flies. There did not appear to be a man left alive, whether Army or pirate, in the entire fort. Whatever the battle had been, whichever side had won, it was impossible to tell. Either way, they were too late. Nothing but bodies everywhere.

England sucked in a breath and reflexively crossed himself, at which Killian did the same. As they stared around at the heaps of corpses, something else caught Killian's eye, and he crossed the wall to climb up on one of the crenels. From this lofty perch, he could see nearly all of Nassau below, to all directions – and thus as well, the quite-familiar ship anchored in an inlet just west of the main harbor, Union Jack flapping merrily in the stern. HMS _Windsor._

"Bloody hell." He jerked his head at England, beckoning him to look. "That's David Nolan's ship. He was supposed to be in Antigua, I don't know what he's doing here now. He swore he wasn't going to fight us, so either he betrayed us, or someone else took over and made that decision for him. Likely sailed up cool as you please while we were fighting to capture the harbor, and came in the side way, so we never saw a bloody thing. But who – "

At that moment, they heard the measured tap of a cane in the shadows below, such an utterly incongruous sound that both of them spun to look. Killian had a sickening flash of presentiment an instant before the man emerged into the sun, and knew.

"Why, dearie," Robert Gold said, as casually as if he had been waiting for this all along – and given the strategic importance of this place, the fact that everyone knew that to take Nassau, you had to take the fort, he might very well have been. Waiting at his leisure, admiring the destruction, coiled and waiting to strike his final blow. "With David Nolan the traitorous Navy captain and Charles Vane the troublesome pirate captain both in custody, Nassau preparing for a one-of-a-kind double hanging tomorrow, and your own execution soon to follow, I daresay you will find out quite promptly. After all, with Woodes Rogers gone, and with Nolan's cowardly attempt to overthrow me obliging me to declare martial law across the whole of the West Indies, I had to set sail at once. Because with all that the case, it would seem that the true and greatest power here, over England, over the pirates' republic, over the very world, is. . . me."


	41. XLI

**-XLI-**

For a very long moment, Flint, Silver, and Emma did nothing but stare up at Rogers on the deck of the _Queen Anne's Revenge,_ as he thrust the head back into the sack and put it aside like an ugly bit of bric-a-brac that he was removing from the mantel. It was silent enough to hear the continued caw and shriek of the birds in the jungle, as they must have all been desperately and collectively praying for the _Walrus'_ crew to decide now was a good time to return – but if they did, they would be gunned down like dogs by the regimented line of redcoats who had taken position at the railing with their muskets. Three of these were pointed at Flint, another three at Emma, and two at Silver, who seemed to have been accorded the least threat, but only slightly, on account of his missing leg. Nobody said a word. Someone seemed to have taken the gears and windings from the Watchmaker's great clock, and stopped the world entirely dead.

"As you may see," Rogers said at last, when no one else made a movement or a sound, "Captain Thatch has already made the fatal error of underestimating me. I assume you are not in haste to do the same. I do thank you for the recovery of six chests of the Spanish treasure, but by my account, there must be at least several more. Where are they?"

Flint raised his serpent's gaze to the governor's and said nothing.

"That, by the way, was not a rhetorical question." Rogers raised a hand, and there was a shifting and clicking among the soldiers as they prepared to fire. _"Where are they?"_

"Gone," Flint said. "I had them thrown into the water here. You're welcome to jump in and find them. I think it's only three hundred feet or so straight down, you can hold your breath."

A faint, hellacious color crept across Rogers' high cheekbones. "You're lying."

"Captain Flint, the liar?" Flint bared his teeth in a very, very misleadingly genial smile. "But why would I lie about something like that? Would anyone else do the same? I suppose you'll have to go hat in hand to the Spanish, and warble some pretty tune about how you tried so very hard to recover all their treasure for them, but the barbaric pirates made it impossible. You can tell them whatever you like. I'm sure it'll be a good story."

The flush on Rogers' cheeks deepened. "I am not the courier or the apologist to the Spaniards, Captain. And even you wouldn't be so mad as to throw the gold away, so it must still be on your ship. Bring it up, and we can discuss terms."

Emma and Silver glanced at each other, seeing as the six chests were in fact still in the hold, and could be handed over if they thought that would actually spare them from whatever grisly fate Rogers had subjected Blackbeard to. But saying so would mean that they publicly and irrevocably abandoned Flint, took the English side over his and left him to his fate, and all for the sake of warding off a fate that might be inevitable anyway. Emma could still feel the weight of her sword in her hand, the way she and Flint had been at the point of blows, but could not bring themselves to it. "Governor Rogers," she blurted out, before she could stop herself. "He's telling the truth. It's gone. We threw it overboard shortly before you arrived."

Both Flint and Silver's eyes flashed sharply to her at that, but Emma held her ground. Rogers had gone an ugly whey-white, lips a grim line, as Emma, sensing a weakness, probed further. "Perhaps you did not see the need to return _all_ of that money to the Spanish empire completely untouched, did you? You used to sail as a privateer. It was the voyage around the world that made you famous, and which ruined your life. The entire point was to try to find a way to pillage a Manila treasure galleon. You wrote about it in your book."

"Ah, yes. My book." Rogers' face remained a mask. "It's good to know outlaws are such advocates of literacy, I suppose."

"So," Emma said coolly. "The costs associated with this invasion and occupation must be enormous. You've already said that you're no friend of Gold's, so I doubt he's personally bankrolling it for you. You're still an Englishman, the Spaniards are your enemies, and you never got over that voyage's failure and what it did to you. So you were planning to repay your debts with a portion of the Spanish gold, and supposed they would either assume it had been spent by the pirates, or would have to shut their mouths and accept it as a condition of receiving their haul back. Weren't you?"

Rogers' gaze flickered slightly. "In the course of returning civilization to the Caribbean," he said at last, "I have been forced to extremes, yes. None of which, I assure you, I enjoy. But your concern for my finances, Miss Swan, is touching but misplaced. Are you _quite_ sure you want to stake your future on Captain Flint's word that the gold is gone? Call him a liar, and we can consider pardons. My wife is fond of you. She would want me to save you."

"Do you mean Eleanor? _Eleanor_ is your wife now?" Emma wished she could say that she was surprised, though she wasn't. "You married her?"

"I don't recall that that is the topic of discussion." Rogers leaned forward. "Flint's lying, I know he's lying, and I know you're lying for him. This is your choice. Make it."

Emma was silent for a long moment, as the tension hung over them even more thickly than the sweltering mist, the steam rising from the shore, the mountains, the sand. Then she said, "How did you find us here?"

"I had a man most familiar with Captain Flint's thinking, the charts of the _Walrus,_ and the possibilities for hideouts and places of refuge." Rogers gestured, and someone stepped up next to him on the deck. "I believe you two also know each other."

Emma had suspected it, but it was still a blow to see Billy Bones standing across from her, next to their enemies, arms folded and gaze defiant, though it momentarily wavered as he caught sight of her. She could almost believe that he, like Flint, had not _wanted_ her to be stuck in the crossfire, but it had made no difference in swaying him from his stubbornly convicted course of action and whatever it would cost to make. "Billy," she managed, wishing that Macintosh had not hit that particular tall, blonde, and cussedly stubborn nail so directly on the apparently impenetrable head. "I hope it was worth it."

"Aye." Billy did not look at Flint, as he clearly might have caught flames otherwise, but he glanced at Rogers. "Remember the condition I asked for. She comes aboard unharmed."

Rogers looked at him just as unrevealingly, then back at Emma. "If you were planning to surrender yourself to the English crown and come with us to await proper address and retribution of your piratical activities, Miss Swan, this would indeed be the time."

"Surrender myself to you?" Emma almost choked on the word. "After what you did to Killian?"

"I remember making it clear to both of you that that was the least desirable outcome in that circumstance for all of us. I gave you repeated opportunities to recant and take the generous settlement I offered." Rogers' eyes flashed. "Perhaps I should be unsurprised that you choose to spurn the final hand of mercy I am offering, in deference to your past friendship with my wife and your gentle sex, despite your ongoing treasonous actions and extensive connections with traitors. This is your very last warning, Miss Swan. Come aboard, or you will be treated the same as the rest of the _Walrus'_ crew and her captain. That, I need not add, is not a fate to aspire to. Is that clear enough for you?"

The ensuing silence was loud enough for Emma to hear her own heartbeat, rushing and thundering through her ears. It would be easy – terrifyingly so – to take the bargain, to step aboard to presumable safety, and sail back to Nassau and that future she so wanted. But Killian had taken that beating, suffered for hours under the devoted attention of Jennings and Rogers alike and not said a word or broken or betrayed their friends, and Emma was not about to cheapen that, or her own sense of integrity and devotion, for a return trip and a front-row seat to watch Rogers blast holy hell out of the remaining resistance and ensure he had enough nooses for all the hangings he would now have to conduct. She had made her choice long ago.

"No," she said, as steadily as possible. "No deal."

"Emma – " Billy started –

"I'm sorry," Emma said. "I am. You were my first friend in this world. You're right that I have you to thank for sparing me and trying to get me ransomed. You used to be a genuinely decent man, Billy. Better than all of us, and for that to mean something. This, though. I don't recognize this. I'm sorry you're not going to get what you want, but it doesn't seem as if any of us will." She stepped back, solidly between Flint and Silver. "If you're going to kill us, do it."

Billy seemed briefly at a loss for words, before his eyes turned hard. "You'll regret this."

"Maybe," Emma said. "But I'll take that chance."

Billy opened his mouth, turning to Rogers, but at that moment, everyone's attention was distracted by the arrival of a large number of the _Walrus'_ men on the beach, storming down to see what the devil was going on with the apparent arrival of Blackbeard's ship – only to realize, of course, that firstly, it was not Blackbeard, and secondly, they were most decidedly fucked. There were a few stares and shouts as both sides took each other in, and a moment of frozen silence. Unarmed except for the few weapons they had taken to guard against anything alive and hostile in the interior (and possibly coup attempts from the other parties) and completely exposed on the sand, with their only shelter being the _Walrus'_ small boats, the pirates were almost comically at a disadvantage, and Emma could see the split-second of realization cross Woodes Rogers' face, the knowledge that he had a chance to end this once and for all, take down the pirates' republic and erase them from the face of the earth, Nassau or no Nassau. Sam was dead, Rogers had just killed Blackbeard, and once Flint went down too, it was over. Hook and Vane could fight to the grisly end, or they could spare themselves the humiliation and give in. Not that that was likely for either of them, but it didn't matter. This was it. The final hour.

"MEN!" Rogers bellowed. "READY! AIM!"

The redcoats raised their muskets, as flintlocks thunked and powder sparked, barrels trained on the defenseless pirates on the beach. A few of them had dived for the boats, but it couldn't shield more than a dozen of them, and once the _Revenge's_ powerful cannons became involved, they would be blown into matchwood. Most of the _Walrus'_ men, rather than waiting to be shot where they stood, were either fleeing madly back into the trees, or plunging into the water, trying to swim back to the ship, where at least they would have more of a chance. But Rogers had no intention of letting them get there. "FIRE!"

The sound of two dozen rifles going off at once rocked the entire lagoon, a hail of hot lead hammering through the stifling air and down in blazing trails. The yelling was like the din of tormented sinners in hell, blood splashing darkly across the water and a few corpses already bobbing in the cobalt shallows. As Rogers shouted for the second detachment to step up while the first reloaded, Emma and Flint caught each other's eye, knew there was only one chance of a single one of them getting out of this alive, and acted accordingly.

Flint shoved Silver in the back, toward the cover of the quarterdeck, then snatched a rope from the shrouds, grabbed Emma around the waist, and pushed off from the deck. They swung through midair, ducked as a stray round whizzed past their ears, and landed on the _Revenge_ side by side, ripping their swords out, lowering their heads, and charging. Emma was all too aware of the fact that now she was the pirate attacking Billy from the _Walrus,_ not vice versa, but it didn't stop her. Flint went for Rogers, bound and bloody fucking determined to finish what he had promised he would, and Emma was left to face Billy across the point of a sword, just as she had at the very beginning. His blows were hard enough to make her arms tremble, as he was easily twice her size, but he still had that hesitance to commit himself fully, to fight her as viciously as he would have Flint, and she had to take advantage of it. _Pirate._ What she had become, how she had lived for years. _Pirate._ The lost _Blackbird_ floated before her eyes, and the sight of her black flag with its swan and skull snapping on the Caribbean breeze. _Captain Swan._ All of it. At first only a way to provide for her boys, and now this. Going down fighting. _Free._

In the disruption engendered by Emma and Flint's attack on the _Revenge,_ some of the _Walrus'_ men had managed to make it back to the ship, were clambering dripping over the railing, and sprinting to the cannons. The sound of the full broadside at point-blank range was absolutely deafening, throwing Emma bodily back against the mast, and the well-trained Navy gunners were already rushing to respond. Cannonballs thudded like foundation stones against the hulls of both ships, turning the world into a nearly beautiful mélange of fire and splinter and flying sails, and her own sword somewhere in the chaos, still slashing and hacking at anyone who came rushing at her. (That included some further of Flint's men, swinging across to join the fight.) She and Billy had been broken apart in the onslaught, and she twisted her head around madly, trying to see where he had gone, before she finally caught sight of him. He and Rogers were teamed up on Flint, two on one, driving him hard, even as he fended them off with all his years of training and fury and skill. Whatever he might have decided on in regard to his own death, he plainly did not intend to go out quietly, or on his knees. He'd take them both to hell with him.

Emma hesitated, then braced herself to join him. But at that moment, there was an earth-shattering explosion behind her, she lost her footing, and covered her head with her arms as the _Walrus'_ port-side hull breached under the force of the _Revenge's_ bombardment. Water began to hiss and rush in, she heard Rogers yell, "CHAIN SHOT, TAKE OUT THE MAIN!" and the next instant, the distinctive scream was followed by the crack and crash of a direct hit. Flames began to lick across the deck as Rogers ordered a final volley, then whirled back to rejoin the fight against Flint – only to find that he and Billy were going great guns, hammer-and-tongs, and both of them had forgotten about Rogers entirely. Flint was climbing the shrouds, Billy hot on his tail, and as Rogers and Emma watched in mesmeric fascination, they reached the mainsail yard and resumed their duel. Both of them had lost their swords, so they were using knives and fists instead, breathless and furious, the anger of a thousand confrontations and betrayals come to full and inevitable boil. Even with the _Walrus_ afire next to them, the ship where both of them had made their home and fortune, they did not for an instant swerve their attention from each other. Two had gone up, and only one would come down.

Emma knew she had to keep fighting, had to try to make it across the blood-soaked boards to Rogers, but she whirled around instead, searching for Silver among the roar and thunder of the _Walrus'_ unmaking. She couldn't see him. Some of the men were trying to put out the fires, but with the mainmast down and the hull smashed, this was a losing battle, and the tough old bitch's fate was already obvious. Men fell into the sails tattered and translucent on the water, spread-eagled and screaming, and then, Emma looked up just in time to see James Flint haul off, throw everything he had into a final blow, and send Billy Bones plunging from the yard and into the depthless blue hole below, with an almighty splash. Then there was another explosion, and she lost sight of him altogether.

Flint's eyes caught Emma's. She couldn't tell what was on his face, if it was an apology for having had to do that to her friend, or final and searing vindication. Then the world lit on fire, and he was flying, and she was flying, and everything was flying, and the next instant, choking dark salt was all around her and she had no idea which way was up.

Panicking, thinking only of the fact that the water went down and down and down, Emma kicked madly, lungs burning, until her head broke the surface. In a few moments, Flint splashed up next to her, bleeding heavily from a gash across his face, and pulled her away from the roaring bonfire that had once been his ship,skeletal black beams collapsing even as they watched, outlined in fire from stem to stern. They made it to one of the boats, just barely afloat, at the same time a treasure chest smashed out of the violated hold and hit the water. Emma looked up through her curtain of soaking hair, spitting and scraping it out of her eyes, and saw Rogers catch sight of it as well, the realization that the rest of the treasure had indeed still been aboard the _Walrus,_ just as he insisted, and that now, thanks to his own actions, it was all about to sink. The expression on his face was almost sexually satisfying.

Flint lunged for the chest as it began to go under, grabbed it with his free hand, and hauled it up onto the boat with a crash, making it swerve and dip. He and Emma hung onto the side, momentarily shielded from the _Revenge's_ guns by the bulk of the burning _Walrus,_ men in the water to every side, debris bobbing and smoking. "Silver?" he yelled. "Did you see him?"

Emma shook her head.

Flint looked away, searching among the wet heads, as if to judge how far a one-legged man could swim. Whatever crossed his face in that moment, as ever, he kept it to himself. Then he turned back to her. "You hurt?"

Emma shook her head again.

Flint took a better grip on the boat, as the last remaining chest from the _Walrus'_ half of the treasure would be a considerable bargaining leverage (not that Emma remotely thought he intended to bargain with it), but at that moment, everyone's attention was distracted by the appearance of a third ship in the channel. It took them a minute among the billowing smoke and mist, but they recognized it: the _Rose,_ which Rogers must have ordered to sail as rearguard on the _Revenge_ after he captured it. Emma felt her heart sinking through her stomach, and then still further, at this sight of Navy reinforcements. The _Rose_ was also lighter and fleeter than the _Revenge,_ could range afield to pick up any escapees and haul them back to Rogers' custody, and as the Navy frigate bore down on them, clearly not at all damaged and in full command of its batteries, its long nines were trained directly on Emma and Flint, exposed in the water with only a ship's boat to hang onto, which would be no protection at all. In that moment, both of them realized there was nowhere to go, nowhere to swim for it, no way to make it to shore in time, and that the instant those guns lit, they were dead.

Flint grabbed Emma, shoving her face into his shoulder, as she tasted the rough wet cloth of his shirt, closed her eyes, and hoped it would be quick. And then the _Rose's_ guns boomed, they heard them and the echo of them, and yet, they were somehow still alive. As she jerked around, stared, and realized that the Navy frigate – which should have been moving to assist Rogers and corral any survivors from escaping – had just opened fire on the _Revenge_ instead. As there was no way that the _Rose_ men would not know that their commander and the governor of the Bahamas was aboard, that left, however utterly improbably, only one choice. Rogers was not the only one who had craftily stolen the enemy's ship and slipped in under false colors, using them to put his opponents off guard. The _Rose_ was under pirate control. Who, how, why –

"What the fuck," Flint breathed, half to himself. "What the _fu_ – "

He stopped. Despite everything, almost laughed.

"Silver," he said. "John fucking _Silver."_

"What?" Emma really would prefer not to take such a second close shave with death, and Flint was not making any sense – there was no way that Silver would be able to escape the wreck of the _Walrus,_ swim out to wherever the _Rose_ was waiting, and then, as one crippled man, induce an entire shipload of Navy sailors to turn their guns on Rogers. "James, come on, we can still – "

Flint grabbed for the treasure chest with his free hand, as both of them noticed that the one they had rescued from the watery fate of its fellows was the same one that he had broken the lock off earlier. He shoved the lid open, reached in and grabbed a sack, heavy with gold and gems, and slung it over to her. "For my granddaughter," he said. "Get to the _Rose._ Find Silver if he's anywhere around here, go back to Nassau, and save Hook and Madi and the bloody rest of them. Don't leave any of them behind. This is your war now, Captain Swan. Good luck."

"James – " Emma tried to catch his arm. "You're not – "

"I'll take the chest ashore, draw the redcoats off, give you a clean shot at capturing the _Revenge_ and Rogers. After that – " He paused, then grinned. Very softly, and very sadly, but the first real smile she had seen since their reunion. "I washed up on an island in the middle of nowhere once, brokenhearted and adrift. I made something of myself then, I'd say. If this is so again, it's not been the worst of stories. I'm ready to find whatever is out there. To go."

Emma opened and shut her mouth. She knew she did not have time for much, as the _Walrus_ had burned almost to the waterline, they would be exposed to the _Revenge_ again in moments, and she had to make it to the _Rose_ (and hope they were right about its new allegiances) or she too was about to die. But she was not about to let go of one more important person in her life with nothing, and she leaned forward and kissed Flint on the cheek. "Give that to Miranda for me," she said in a whisper. "Whenever you see her again."

"Aye. I will." For a moment, he looked almost young, among the smoke and stain and wrack and ruin, among the fire, among the fragments. The unmaking of Captain Flint and the _Walrus,_ and James McGraw blown away on the wind to begin his new adventure. "And tell Silver that he – that he was right. In the end, we were friends by then after all. Save him."

With that, he took Emma's face in his hands, kissed her on the forehead, and then pushed her away hard, toward a floating barrel. She began to kick, clinging to it with one hand and hauling the treasure sack with the other. Flint watched her for a moment longer, then grabbed a broken plank and paddled toward the beach. Yells began to spread as the redcoats noticed him, launching the _Revenge's_ own boat after him, as Emma kept her head down and swam for all she was worth. The _Rose_ loomed closer and closer, and then finally she grabbed the rope someone threw down for her, tied the sack on, and heaved it up. It hit the deck above with a very solid-sounding thump, and she wondered briefly just how much money was inside. But as for her rescuers, offering her a forest of helping hands as she climbed over the side, she recognized them. Men from the _Walrus_ and the _Jolie_ alike, and –

"Merida," Emma said weakly, dazed and utterly bewildered and relieved beyond words. "Macintosh said you were in Nassau. Stayed behind to fight."

"Aye, well." The red-haired Scotswoman mustered up a brave grin. "Couldna leave the thick-heided gomerel out here by his damn self, now could I? Get himself killed, for sure."

"How are you – " Emma stared around at them. "How on _earth_ did you pull this off?"

"I'll say for now," Merida remarked, "that that John Silver is a bloody clever man. Too much so for anyone's good, really. The rest, well, we've no time for. Captain Swan, if you'll take command?"

Emma had to take that in for a moment, after how long she had been without a ship of her own, without any of this. She looked one final time for Flint, and saw a small black figure scrambling onto the beach, hefting the chest on his shoulder, and plunging into the trees, a detachment of redcoats rowing as fast as they could in hopes of catching up to him. Then he vanished, and there was only this, there was only now, and the _Rose_ was hers, and it was time.

"Aye," Emma said. Quiet at first, and then louder. "Aye. To your guns."

* * *

For a long moment, Killian simply stared. It seemed untrue, it seemed impossible, that Robert Gold should be standing here so casually, watching him with that air of studied unconcern, when it was the first time they had been face to face since that awful night in Antigua. When the Jones brothers were confronted and cast down, when Jennings had taken Killian's hand and Hook had been born from the vengeful ashes. His voice felt caught in his throat, his world frozen in place, until he was briefly unsure how it could ever go on properly turning again. All his schemes, his visions, his ideas about what he would do when he was face to face with this man again, and yet he could recall nary a whisper of them. He could only stand there, waiting.

"Well?" Gold said. "Aren't you going to greet me, Captain?"

"I – " Killian's tongue felt as heavy and uncooperative as lead. "The _fuck_ are you doing – ?"

"Someone has to attend to the business of this place while Governor Rogers is away, wouldn't you say? And considering the attempt made to sabotage my own power – which I am told you had quite a bit to do with – I supposed it was all just desserts." Gold grinned, exposing a set of sharp canines. "Dearie, did you ever think a _letter_ was going to take me down? As I said, I have David Nolan in my custody, and I intend to hang him side by side with Charles Vane at sunrise tomorrow. Planning to let him die for your mistake?"

"Vane?" England blurted out. "How the bloody hell did you – "

"He and that wild pussycat of his managed to rescue Jack Rackham." Gold sounded bored. "However, in the effort, Vane was captured instead. Rather like holding a brass penny and getting a golden doubloon in exchange, isn't it? I am well aware that Vane is far more valuable to the pirates' cause than Rackham, so it will be quite tragic for you to lose him. Make one wonder if the rest of your ragtag lot could hold together. Especially after Madi."

"What?" Killian repeated stupidly. "What the hell have you done with – "

"Nothing. Yet." Gold shrugged. "She's below – in this very fort's dungeon, in fact. You and I can have a chat, as surely there's quite a bit you wish to do to me, or you can go and fetch her out. I imagine it's getting rather unpleasant down there. Your choice, really."

Killian was still paralyzed, but at this, he became aware of a faint foul whiff on the air, smoke and saltpeter, which he had taken for some unpleasant side effect of the fort's massacre – but surely Gold, a mid-fifties aristocrat with a limp, who was also not the most physically imposing specimen in the world, could not have carried it out on his own. He was also not the sort of man who would venture his person alone, and at that, it struck. "You brought your friend, didn't you? Bloody Mr. Plouton, the two of you up to your ears together in this Star Chamber treason, and all the skill you both have in destroying men's lives?"

"Treason? You're using that word to me with a straight face?" Gold giggled, a high, eerie sound which did not suit him at all. "And our good Mr. Plouton never forces anyone to take a deal they don't already want. Ask your brother about that, if you ever see him again."

Killian turned to England, about to order him to do – well, he had absolutely no buggering, blasted, godforsaken idea what. The scent of smoke from below was growing stronger, and he understood just then that Gold had set it up this way on purpose. Killian could either stay here and fight him, though he was also sure that there would be some sort of trick or trap associated with that, or he could let him go run to Madi. Either way, Gold won. Get Killian to give into his revenge and stay to kill him at the cost of an innocent woman's life and the disintegration of the alliance with the Maroons once they found out, the final proof that the only pirate they could trust was dead. Or Killian went to rescue Madi, and Gold himself weaseled off to hole up somewhere else, cause further trouble, and hang Nolan and Vane, which would likewise be the last nail in the coffin for their fragile coalition and fading hopes of success. Plouton must have brought a substantial private army with him as well, and Killian Jones and Edward England were, at the moment, exactly two people against the full fury of the most dangerous man in the West Indies, the careful puppetmaster and overall architect of his entire disgrace and downfall. There was nothing, nowhere to turn that Gold had not already thought of.

And yet. Killian wanted nothing more to draw his sword and run the stinking crocodile through from belly to backbone, wanted to cut him down right here and avenge himself in blood, know that Gold would not get away with this or anything like it ever again. But he already knew that he couldn't. He didn't know if this was the right choice, but he did know what was the wrong. He whirled on his heel, plunged into the passage that led to the dungeon, and began to run.

His eyes began to sting at once, his throat burning as the smoke intensified, a whiff of brimstone to it that made him think of hellfire, an oddly fitting metaphor considering everything. He knew he did not have long, and picked up the pace, battling through the dimness, toward the cells at the end. Could just make out something – someone – slumped against the bars, thought of Ursula on the Maroons' island, putting her trust in him to take her away, and how he had broken it. He smashed at the lock with his hook, supposing that the bloody thing had finally proved to be good for something after all, and after a few more wrenches, got it to give. The cell door swung open, and Madi toppled out, semi-conscious and coughing. She tried to get to her feet, then fell hard.

Killian grabbed her, scooping her up in his arms and hoisting her clumsily against his chest, as he tried to spot any daylight among the billowing smoke. He thought he spotted it, put on a final burst of speed, and they somersaulted out through a broken hole in the stones, to the steep grassy verge beyond. They rolled and rolled in a tangle of limbs, until they finally crashed to a stop against the end of the wall, and simply lay there, hacking and heaving and bringing up chunks of sooty phlegm. Killian got woozily to his hand and knees, realized on the instant that that was far too much effort, and collapsed again, waiting for the chance to get off the world to present itself.

After this interminable recovery period, Madi finally spoke, her voice hoarse and choked with smoke. "You," she said. "I was not expecting you."

"I don't imagine you were." Killian tried another, slower attempt to get to his feet, which seemed more inclined to cooperate. "Do you – bloody hell, Robert Gold's here, him and his bloody friends. He said they had captured Vane and they meant to hang him and David Nolan, he could have been lying, but – "

"They have Captain Vane." Madi sat up, also slowly, and spat a final hunk of soot. "And what are you proposing we do now?"

"My men are still somewhere around here, I have to find them before they head right into the middle of Gold's evil bloody business." At that thought, Killian lurched all the way upright and made a dogged effort to run back toward the bluff, as he did not want the _Jolie's_ crew to keep climbing, obviously under the impression that he and England were already in the fort and they needed to help take it, only to hit the waiting jaws of the trap. It was then, however, that he heard the rumbling in the ground beneath them, saw the smoke billowing from the rusted grates of the murder holes, and remembered the small fact that Gold had already set the damned place afire – the fire from which, of course, he had only barely rescued Madi. He hesitated, about to run back anyway – but then, it was Madi's turn to grab him by the wrist, jerk him hard, and send both of them tumbling down the verge, just as he heard all the air suck out of the world behind them. In the next, the long-burning fuse must have hit the piled barrels of powder and shot inside the fort's armory, and whatever other fiendish trick Plouton had provided to ensure it all was destroyed, because everything, everywhere, exploded.

Killian and Madi threw themselves under the thick sod berm of the foundation just in time, as huge chunks of broken wall cascaded past mere feet from them, crashing and roaring and sending up a plume of rock dust. The din was deafening, incredible, as Killian waited for them to be crushed at any moment, a big piece to punch through the earth above them and squash them to jelly. It felt rather like being buried alive, watching the light and air run out, waiting to die. He had, for so long, so very bloody long. Whatever was coming out of here, _who_ ever, he did not know. Could not control it, or overcome it. Only wait, until it ended.

At last the thundering stopped, and once it had been more or less quiet for several minutes, Killian and Madi crawled very, very cautiously out of their hole. The air was hazed with dust and smoke and grit, but as they stood up and looked back, they could see that the fort had not just been destroyed, but completely obliterated, as if the great fist of a god had swung from the sky to smite it. A loyal governor would never have blown up his own fort, even at the advantage of denying its possession to the enemy, but Robert Gold was, after all, no loyal governor. This was the final stage of his plan, to take down the pirates and the British crown alike, until the only power left among the rubble, the only choice for it to rise again, was him. _Star Chamber._ The men who thought they could overthrow even the mightiest as they pleased, and craft the world again in their own image. This was it, then. It began, and ended, on Nassau, New Providence Island, and the hourglass was almost spent.

Killian might have been pleased that they had been so correct about Gold's ultimate allegiance, and the games he had played to reach this point at last, but when that meant the world was literally blowing up around him, it was somewhat of a second priority. He and Madi picked their way down the hill as fast as they could, a dangerous obstacle course through sliding rubble and broken stones, as he started to hear gunshots cracking through the streets. Most of his men, if not all of them, would have been killed in the explosion, which he tried not to think of, and those sounded like well-trained, regimental gunshots. British Army gunshots, or so it would have been taken every care to appear, but it was not. Gold and Plouton making their last move, killing the remaining redcoats, anyone loyal to Rogers or the Crown or who might stand in their way. By this time tomorrow, Nassau would be the headquarters of the Star Chamber, Second Founding.

"What are we – " Madi skidded to a halt, staring at the devastation to every side. Her lips were blanched, her gaze fixed. "How do we fight this evil? How is it even possible?"

Killian had to admit, he did not know. He had no idea. Even Woodes Rogers' shrewd, cool, ruthless danger was safer than this, and at least he understood what Rogers was fighting for. The British Crown might be the devil, but it was the devil they knew, and there was that saying about which was the more preferable. And in it, Killian realized there was only one slender, vanishing, insanity of a chance. If the Star Chamber was going to turn on both the Navy and the pirates, then the Navy and the pirates would have to turn on it first. _Lieutenant Killian Jones or Captain Hook?_ The answer at the very end, it seemed, was both.

"Do you know where they took Nolan?" He spun back to look at Madi. "You said you knew they had Vane, Gold wants to hang them together, they must be kept in the same place. Not in the fort, they meant to destroy that. Any ideas? Any?"

"No. I don't know Nassau. I could not tell you its secret hideouts." Madi spoke more or less calmly, though Killian could see the whites of her eyes. "What are you – "

"In a minute, lass." Killian started to trot, mind whirring madly. He could, he supposed, try Rogers' office, the place where he and Emma had paid their first ill-fated visit to the governor, as Gold would certainly see the irony in using it to stage his grand takeover, and if there was one chance of stopping him, one small Achilles' heel, it was in Gold's arrogance. He would want the show, the display, the symbolism of the thing, taking down Nassau from its very heart, and with that, though it made his legs ache as if they too were about to fall off (in that case, Killian supposed, Silver could give him tips if any of them survived), he once more began to run.

He and Madi made it down to the streets, though they then had to keep low and move very carefully. Soldiers in blue jackets with a golden star on the sleeve, clearly Gold and Plouton's special thugs, were patrolling the plaza where the gallows had been built, and more than once, Killian and Madi tripped over bodies that numbered both redcoat and pirate. _Bloody hell, where are the Maroons?_ If Lancelot could get to them in time with reinforcements, it. . .well. . . their prospects remained as grim as absolute fuck-all, but still. Not that the slaves of New Providence would ever have expected to fight a foe this monstrous. Nobody had.

At last, Killian and Madi edged around the corner, glanced from side to side, and decided to risk the sprint of a dozen yards or so to the handsome colonnaded building that had served as Rogers' residence and seat of business, and where (so Killian desperately prayed, because if not, they were out of bloody ideas) Nolan and Vane might be currently incarcerated. Just then, however, someone grabbed Killian by the shoulder, he whirled around and threw a punch with his hook, and thus only narrowly avoided inadvertently disemboweling a very filthy and very alarmed Jack Rackham. "Jesus Christ! It's me!"

"How the hell was I supposed to – " Killian tried to calm his racing pulse, to no success, as he took in the sight of him – no, them. Anne was equally dirty and road-worn, and both of them had the same desperate look in their eyes. "Let me guess, you're doing the same. Trying to get to Vane?"

"Aye. The bastards grabbed him as he and Anne were rescuing me, we got away, but they took him. What the fuck is going on? Who are all these lunatics?"

"Robert Gold and friends. The _Windsor's_ here, on the west side of the island – he captured David Nolan and then sailed here, he means to hang him and Vane together."

"I thought redcoats were the worst we were going to have to face in this fight." Rackham scrubbed a hand over his face. "I sense this is the part where I'm mistaken."

"Aye, but – I think most of my crew might have been. . ." Killian gestured behind them, at the smoke rising into the sky from where Nassau Fort had once stood. "I have a bloody mad idea, but it won't work without at least some men. The _Ranger_ is our last chance to find them. Do you think you can reach the ones who came ashore with Vane?"

"Could be," Anne rasped. "There's not many, though. Twenty. Thirty at the most. We can't fight these fuckin' monsters with thirty men."

"Fine. We just need a few. There have to be some men aboard the _Windsor_ as well, held in reserve, who aren't part of Gold's sick little scheme. Ordinary Navy sailors. As well, all the ordinary pirates Rogers is holding and means to hang, we can get some of those free too. We just need enough to run the guns on her and the _Jolie."_

Jack and Anne exchanged a slightly stunned look. It was Jack who got it first. "They have sixty guns each," he said. "Sister ships, both started life as Royal Navy third-raters, HMS _Windsor_ and HMS _Imperator._ One captained by David Nolan, the other by Liam Jones. The latter, of course, now has become the _Jolie Rouge,_ its captain has become Hook, and all because of what Robert Gold himself did to you. That's our only chance. Getting the two of them to fight together, to reunite again after long last. But even if we do break Nolan and Charles out, even if we find just enough men to crew both ships, then we – what? All those guns are only good if we have something to shoot at. How do you think you can draw Gold down to the beach and into range, and the rest of his men with him? What can you offer up as bait?"

"That," Killian said, with an utterly black smile. "That is actually the part of the bloody plan I am the _least_ worried about."

"Then what are you – "

"It's simple." Killian turned to face them, spreading his arms. "Me."

* * *

The lagoon was on fire. Not literally, but nearly so, as the water was so thick with burning and smoldering debris that it was hard to tell the difference. The husk of the _Walrus_ was on her side, splintered pieces and cracked masts standing wildly askew. It would take a while for her to go fully under, and in the meantime, she constituted a tricky obstacle _._ While it might be effective just to sail the smaller Navy frigate directly into the side of the larger _Revenge,_ it would then leave them short both of those vessels to boot, and as Emma did not want to swim all the way back to Nassau, that difficulty had to be considered. Rogers was still striding the deck of the _Revenge,_ and she had to find some, _any_ way of getting to him long enough to take him prisoner and bring this to an end. But after what she and Flint had done earlier, anyone else trying to swing over on ropes would be shot out of the air before they could, and there was no other obvious method of getting someone close enough. Rogers had sent most of his men ashore after Flint, but there were still enough to make it chancy. So this was it, then. Whoever blinked first.

Just then, Rogers' head turned, as if he could sense Emma staring at him from across the water, and their gazes locked. Their ships were not terribly far apart – a man with a strong arm could have thrown a rock from one to the other – and Emma could thus see the same realization forming in his eyes. That to end it, either of them only needed to capture the other, a chess player forcing the other into checkmate, but the moves to get there were nearly impossible to make on the overturned board. It was also clear that Rogers was wondering how the fuck his Navy frigate had ended up in pirate hands, but considering he had stolen the _Revenge_ after luring it in by false pretenses, Emma considered that entirely fair repayment. But if –

At that moment, Merida sucked in a horrified breath, and Emma tore her gaze away – carefully, since anywhere she looked, Rogers might as well. It was clear, however, what had drawn Merida's attention. A lone, dripping, dark-haired figure was climbing the side of the _Revenge,_ just out of the sight of the soldiers on the deck, with a knife between its teeth. For a mad moment, Emma thought it was Silver, but it wasn't. It was Macintosh.

It was clearly taking everything Merida had not to shout out at him, to stand there and wait to see whatever was going to happen. Indeed, she and Emma caught each other's eyes, then affected to be looking at something else, shouting and waving, so that Rogers' attention was diverted to them instead. Emma dared a split-second glance back, and couldn't see Macintosh anymore. Then there was a thump, a crack, an outbreak of shouting, and he vaulted onto the deck, bull-rushed Rogers, and rammed him squarely in the chest. About six gunshots went off at the same time, Merida screamed, and Macintosh and Rogers hit the railing together, back-flipped in midair, and went overboard.

"GO!" Emma screamed, hauling on the wheel as hard as she could, heedless of the obstacles or the danger or anything at all. Rogers was struggling like a sea monster, kicking and thrashing and trying to break Macintosh's grim-death grip, but the other man simply would not let go. The _Rose_ skimmed over the water, Merida uncoiled a line and threw it to Macintosh as unerringly as firing an arrow, and he flailed out, got it coiled around him and Rogers both. "NOW!"

The immediately following moments were complete chaos. The pirates hauled as hard as they could, Rogers still fighting like a violent fish on the line, even as he and Macintosh were pulled bodily from the water and reeled in over the railing of the _Rose,_ crashing down together in a tangle of arms and legs and curses. Six brawny pirates pounced on Rogers immediately, forcing him to his knees, as he flung a look of absolutely withering black dudgeon at them, clearly warning that they would have to beat any surrender out of him inch by inch. That, however, was not Emma – or Merida's – main concern. Macintosh was sprawled on the boards where he had fallen, a slowly spreading stain of crimson beneath him. He managed a slurred, stunned, delighted smile when Merida knelt next to him and rolled him over, pulling him into her arms. "Hey. Lassie. Ye shouldna be here."

"Ye stupid, _stupid_ fat-headed fool." Merida's hands searched frantically for the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but Emma could see at least three bullet holes. "I knew I couldna leave ye alone! The hell were ye thinkin', don't you – don't you _dare_ die on me, Alexander Macintosh!"

"That's. . . good of ye." Macintosh managed a crooked smile. "But ye ken, Merida Dunbroch. . . I never did. . . do what ye said."

"No," Merida said, cradling his head in her hands. "Look at me. At me, man, at me. I'm here."

"Always have. Looked at ye." Macintosh's voice was slower, softer, farther away. "Wouldna rather go to the Almighty. . . lookin' at anything else."

He struggled to raise a bloodied hand, trying to catch one of Merida's long red curls, as she bent to let him grab it, comb his fingers through it. "Mac," she whispered. "Mac, _mo ghaol_ , don't."

"It's all right." Macintosh raised his unfocused eyes to Emma, then flicked them around the deck, with the very last of his strength. "Cap'n. . . Swan. Have your own ship. . . again. You two lassies. . . do right by each other, eh? You and this other one. Otherwise I'll. . . be. . ."

"You'll be what?" Merida cupped his cheek as his head slumped into the crook of her elbow. "Mac, what? Don't you dare be an arse to the end and never tell me what you – "

He didn't answer, a faint smile still frozen on his lips, as his eyes slowly began to reflect the sky. Merida let out a gasp, then a racking sob, bending over him, as Emma pressed her knuckles to her mouth, struggling to keep her composure. She did not want to begin to weep. Woodes Rogers was on her ship, Flint had given her the war, and she would not. She could not yet. She was not entirely certain if she could ever stop.

A few of the nearby men pulled off their hats or kerchiefs, an eerie, shattering silence falling over the inferno, until Emma rose to her feet and turned to face Rogers, still on his knees with the six pirates keeping firm hold of him. He tilted his head back to stare at her coolly. "I am worth a good amount in ransom, and doubtless you are aware of my family connections as well. But I will not beg for my life from the likes of you. If it is blood for blood you intend, have done with it. You will have no satisfaction or sport from me."

"I might," Emma said, cold and quiet. "If I was different. If I was you. If I was the monster you thought I was, we all are. But as it happened, as we have always agreed, you're worth more alive, and I intend that you remain that way. First, we will be returning to Nassau. Other circumstances and any potential future arrangements will be discussed at that time." She jerked her head at the men. "Take him to the brig."

Rogers was hauled to his feet again and marched off, as Emma turned to stare over the lagoon one more time. The _Revenge_ had struck her colors when Rogers was captured, and she had taken enough damage herself that she was not in much fit state to pursue, especially the smaller, faster _Rose._ But Emma could not simply turn around and sail off, not yet. She kept expecting to see the trees to part, for Flint to reappear, even though she knew he was not going to. Yet the last thing he had ever said to her was to save Silver, the man he had insisted that he wanted dead for the longest time, and she did not intend to dishonor his wish in such a way. But searching through all the debris would take hours, if not days, and God alone knew what awaited them back on Nassau. If they didn't go, if they let Rogers' men recover their wind after this stunning defeat –

Emma bit her lip. She could still see a few of the _Walrus'_ crew in the water, but not many of them were moving, and Silver did not appear to be among them. If nothing else, his lack of a leg should have made him – or his corpse – easy to pick out. She looked up and down. If he didn't –

And then, in the final miracle, she caught sight of something, or rather someone, in the boat that Flint had taken ashore with the chest. A lone figure, rowing through the burning water, as the men leaned over the side and shouted. Until a few minutes later, they had thrown another rope to haul John Silver aboard, he fell hard and headlong on the deck as if he barely had the volition left to catch himself, and Emma crouched next to him. "Flint?" she said. "Did you – "

It took Silver a long moment to answer. When he did, his voice sounded strange, distant and formal. "Captain Flint will not be accompanying us."

"You must have made it ashore during the madness," Emma said quietly. "Didn't you. You followed him. Into the woods. The redcoats after him – "

"They're dead." Silver reached out, nearly put his hand into a pool of Macintosh's blood, and pulled it back, sitting up with a grimace. "You may have my assurances on that."

"And – and Flint? Is he. . ." Emma tried to steady herself for an answer she knew was coming, but very much did not want to hear. "Is he dead too?"

"Is Captain Flint dead?" Silver's blue eyes, like the lagoon, had turned to something different, scarred and smoked and forever keeping hold of their secrets. "Yes, I daresay he is."

Emma regarded him for a long moment, wanting to ask, to press for details, but already and utterly aware that she would get no more of them. She turned away to order the crew to make one more sweep for survivors, then to take the first heading for Nassau that they could, that they would likewise be sailing straight for as long as it took to return. When this had been done, when Macintosh's body had been taken away to be sewed in sailcloth, she turned back to Silver, who hadn't moved from where he was leaning against the railing, face raised to the sun finally beginning to break through the fog. "I'm told I have you to thank for this. The _Rose."_

"Aye?" His expression did not change, though something flickered. "Does that surprise you?"

"Surprise me? No. Not exactly. That doesn't mean I don't want to know, now, how you did it."

"Is that an order, Captain?" Silver spoke it with just enough respect to sound genuine, though his eyebrow raised. "No use in simply being grateful that I did?"

Emma regarded him for a moment, mulling any number of possible replies. Then she said, "The last thing Flint said to me was to save you. I'd like to be able to do that."

"As in, you might not if I don't cooperate?" Silver looked mildly impressed. "He did teach you well. And I know he was very proud of you."

Emma glanced down, noting that Silver was using the past tense when speaking of Flint, but still refusing to break. She flicked her eyes up to his again. "Flint wasn't the only one with a secret plan that he kept to himself all along. Was he."

"No," Silver said at last. "No, he wasn't."

"So why? What was yours?"

"I suspected." Silver, having apparently decided to tell her, sat up straighter, pulling his tangled black curls out of his face. "That Flint did not intend to come back. As well, that Billy was going to attempt to split the crew and find takers for his incitement to mutiny. I lost my leg in the last one. I don't imagine you can accuse me of not taking the prospect of another one very fucking seriously. But ever since Charlestown, everything that happened there and after, as Flint has come apart at the seams, I'm the one who has held the ship and the crew together. It was no accident. _He_ was no accident. Long John Silver. The man who could say things, could concoct any tale, and other men would believe. It's a strange and terrible power, isn't it? When you used me to spread the rumor that Flint was alive, that he had returned, when I could have told you that he was already dead. See what you did, what _I_ did? I made a dead man live for days, for weeks, so that folk would remember seeing him, speaking to him, knowing him, when he was only shadows and dust. It makes me a conjurer, of sorts. A necromancer."

Emma folded her arms, watching him. Waiting.

"And yet," Silver went on. "I knew it was not finished. Not yet. I had to be sure that if and when Flint finally began his last descent, there would be some way to get back, to escape it. Back to Nassau, back to Madi, back to – " he looked at her straight – "Hook. So – "

"You chose the men Billy brought with him." Emma kept her voice level, even as she could only begin to grasp at the implications of this. "Told them to act in utter agreement with his plan to overthrow Flint, be willing to do whatever he suggested, as long as when the time came, you could count on them to rise up. Did you know Billy was going to approach Rogers?"

"Again. I suspected." Silver could clearly hear the accusation in her voice, but he did not bridle. "I thought that was the most likely avenue he would take – and why would I stop him, when we needed Rogers to follow us, when we needed, in fact, to be sure that he would? If Billy went to him, there would be absolutely no doubt that both of them would chase Flint to the ends of the earth. All I told the men was that no matter what, they had to make sure that they reached us. They had to make sure there was a way for us to get back to Nassau. Whatever it took, they had to remember that. There were not so many of them that they could step aboard and openly start to fight – the redcoats would have outnumbered and overpowered them on the instant, and that would have defeated the entire purpose. They had to lie in wait. Choose their moment."

"Rogers took the _Revenge,_ then." Emma closed her fists on her thighs. "By, ironically, the exact same stratagem. Pretending to make the _Rose_ look abandoned and helpless, so Blackbeard would be gulled into a rash attack, and then caught off guard and taken. When you saw that, when you must have guessed _something_ was happening – you still didn't say a word?"

"Say a word to who?" Silver did not look away. "Blackbeard? What, tell him the one secret that could save all our lives in front of everybody on all three ships, so Rogers could hear it and turn on the men right then? Shout it to him over the water, perhaps? I'm sorry for what happened to him, but I am not responsible for his death. If Blackbeard had been meant to, he would have beaten Rogers then. There would have been no need for us to continue further out to sea, and thus for the plan's existence. But because it did, we're going back. To Madi. To Killian. Do you really wish we were not? I don't think you do. That was the price. You might not have known exactly what it was, but you were more than willing to pay it."

Emma opened her mouth, then shut it. "So your hand-picked group of mutineers found their moment," she said at last. "When Rogers chose the _Revenge_ to sail in here and catch us off guard, and to take full advantage of her superior guns. He took Billy with him, of course, and the rest must have promised that they would keep watch over the _Rose._ Then, when the odds were better, with most of the redcoats aboard the _Revenge,_ they rose up, killed the remaining ones, took the _Rose_ over, and had what you wanted all along."

"And what you did. But if you're going to blame me for not telling you either – I had no notion what had happened, as much as you did not. They could have taken the _Rose._ They could have been found out and killed. They could have decided to join Billy after all. Anything was possible. I set the pieces in motion, I could only hope they moved to the end." Silver stretched out his shortened leg, unhooking the crude metal stump that served him in place of a foot. "And now the ship is yours. We have Rogers. We're going back. So. . .?"

Emma continued to look at him. "What you said about not wanting to sacrifice Flint, was that just something – "

"That was not a lie." Silver's voice remained quiet. "The last thing he said to you, so you claimed, was to save me. I would have done the same. Indeed, I made this plan for him, as much as for Madi. I knew he would lead us to the brink of destruction, and over it, and there might be nothing left when he had. I wanted there to be a way back for him as well. But he chose not to take it. He chose. . . what he did. Now both of us live with that. Don't we."

There was a heavy silence, Silver's face drawn and introspective and haunted, until the question that had bubbled to Emma's lips – _did you kill him? –_ died unspoken. She had always had a sense of Flint and Silver as two halves of the same coin, with different methods but the ultimate and united aim, and had wondered if one could ever live, or truly be free or safe, while the other did as well. Or if such an organism must devour itself for sustenance, that only one could grow in the light and air, and the other must lie down in the darkness and wait to die. One's star rising, the other's dwindling, only existing in perfect balance for such a short time, and with an ever-increasing price to pay. Silver's words from earlier still echoed in her head, that this particular price had been hers as well, that she would not change anything he had done if it meant, as it did, that she was going back to Killian now. And perhaps, after all, he was right. She did not know what that made her, and she was tired of trying to sort it out. She wanted to go home to the man she loved, and marry him, and lie down beside him, and sleep. Wanted to find what small tender shoot might spring up among the ashes. She wanted to be done. She wanted it so very badly.

And yet, she knew it wasn't – or rather, that it was, and there was no telling what came now. Sam was dead. Blackbeard was dead. Flint was dead. Killian and Vane and Rackham might be as well, or at least in no position to offer further meaningful resistance. Woodes Rogers might be returning to Nassau as a prisoner, and there would be a high price to free him which he could already ill-afford, but he had done his job. He had brought down the pirates' republic. Even if the scattered survivors formed some sort of new coalition or struck individual bargains, their entire world would never again be what it had been. Samson and the pillars of the temple had fallen together. There was only the question of what, if anything, would be rebuilt from the pieces.

Emma and Silver looked at each other for a final moment. The ghost of Flint hung between them, almost as tangibly as if he was really present, conjuring the memory of Silver's words in the cabin. That Flint might not intend to give them a choice as to whether they had to sacrifice him, no matter how much they might both wish it had been different, and so it would remain. So he would. As if the man and the mantle of Captain Flint alike might be at rest now in the deep, like the _Walrus,_ like Sam and the _Whydah,_ like the legends that all of them would only one day be. Wherever that was, Emma hoped it was peace. Hoped it was quiet, and that there was sunlight on calm water, and Thomas Hamilton and Miranda Hamilton Flint had come to the shore to wait for him, their third part and their missing soul. That he saw them there, and smiled.

 _This is your war now, Captain Swan._

 _Good luck._

Emma dashed the tears off her cheeks, and turned her back on Skeleton Island. As Macintosh's body was brought up, and she went, one last time, to send a man home to the sea.

* * *

The night wind tousled Killian's hair brusquely back from his face and sent his jacket flapping against his legs, as he did his best to affect as nonchalant a posture as he could. He could hear his heart hammering in his ears – if Gold did not go for this, they might as well start picking out a nice tombstone, not that they would be afforded even that luxury. _Just be dumped in a pauper's grave with no mark or blessing, after we strangled to death on the end of a rope._ But Killian was wagering, once again, on the man's arrogance. Gold would not be able to resist the opportunity to meet him face to face once and for all, to gloat, to feel assured in his final victory. _Just get me enough men,_ Killian had told Jack, Anne, Madi, and England, who they had managed to find in the aftermath of the fort's explosion. _All the ones Rogers still has prisoner._ Nolan and Vane if they could, but if worse came to worse, they would have to take the _Windsor_ without its captain's permission. They were, after all, pirates.

He waited a few more minutes, straining to hear anything from the eerily quiet streets, when he finally heard a measured crunch and tap. The footsteps, say, of a man walking with a cane, descending onto the debris-strewn sand, until the unmistakable silhouette emerged from the shadows. "Dearie," the voice said at last. "I'm quite convinced you must have a death wish."

"Or perhaps I just wanted to catch up with an old friend." Killian's own voice was just as sleek and dangerous. "Properly. We hardly had much time before your trick with the fort."

Robert Gold smiled. "Ah. Yes. Tender sensibilities, Captain, of course. Exactly the case for a man like you. Or perhaps even you cannot help but being _slightly_ impressed by my work here, and wanted, at last, to beg for mercy?"

"In your dreams, crocodile."

"Crocodile?" Gold sounded amused. "I've been given plenty of epithets over the years, believe me, but I think that is a new one. Well, your idiosyncrasies of insult aside, I am a busy man, and so, it would seem, are you. Doomed, of course, but busy. What do you mean by this?"

"Just the truth. If you're remotely capable of it, of course. You destroyed me and my brother on purpose, you made me into your perfect monster, so all the resources and all the money and all the time you requested from England to fight the pirate threat would be granted. All eyes on me. Everyone expecting me to be the enemy. They'd never once be looking for you."

Gold did not bother to deny this, if at this point, there would be no real reason for it, and he was too proud of his handiwork to want to. "A story as old as the serpent in the garden, dearie," he said instead. "As the saying goes, you can never be betrayed by your enemies. Only by your friends."

"Aye, and Eve gets blamed for it." Killian had not come here to argue theology with the evil bastard, but he couldn't help himself. He thought suddenly of Milah, back in Antigua, who had saved him and tended him and fashioned him the brace, who would not leave her son behind since he was buried there, and the sense Killian had that Gold was responsible for his death. How, he did not know, or precisely what their relationship had been. But he wondered if perhaps it had been Gold's son as well, and Milah had been sent into exile in the Indies rather than stain the governor's reputation with her existence. Cruelly ironic, of course, that then he had followed her there. "That is likely your favorite part, isn't it?"

"Are we talking of women?" Gold asked. "Specific ones? If so, Miss Guthrie – well, it is in fact Mrs. Rogers now – is presently the interim governor of the island, since her husband is away. Just as she's always wanted. I had the chance to become acquainted with her in Antigua, when Captain Hume brought her and Sam Bellamy to me. I knew that she'd always make the choice to assist whoever would keep her in charge of this place, or tell her that at least, and indeed, she professed her willingness to fully cooperate. Good to find a woman of her word, isn't it? So I am delighted to announce that Mrs. Rogers has, with the governor's full warrant and authority, signed the possession of New Providence Island, and its seat of Nassau, over to myself and the Star Chamber. Guaranteed seats on the ruling council for her and her husband, of course. Generous financial settlement for Governor Rogers' personal and professional debts. The removal of the English occupation, and the restoration of lawful commerce."

With that, Gold reached into his jacket and removed the folded paper, unfolding it and holding it up as if for the presentation of a warrant. "Therefore," he went on, "now that a strong and sensible agreement has been reached for Nassau's future, you and your band of bilge rats can be safely assured that you play no part in it. I am told that Bellamy is in fact dead, is that true? Pity we didn't get to hang him, but the universe will take its due in the end."

"You," Killian said, "were not fit to wipe Sam Bellamy's arse."

Gold laughed, but with less humor. "Yes, Captain Hume always did think you had a far too exalted opinion of that one. In either case, however, he is still not the purpose of this conversation. If you wished to agree and save us some difficulty, please, do so. Yet since I have already become well acquainted to the fact that you won't, at least – "

"Where's Lord Archibald Hamilton?"

That caught Gold genuinely by surprise. "What?"

"Lord Archibald Hamilton. He was on the _Windsor_ with Nolan, the last I heard, so either you brought him along here, promising to expunge his Jacobite activities from the record if he agreed to become your new figurehead governor – I don't think you like Rogers much, he's too smart and dangerous for your tastes, you need someone who more easily controlled, and everyone has known from the start that Hamilton can be bought. Or you likewise turned him in to the English authorities as a traitor, further proving how much they should trust you. Which one?"

"How civically minded of you." Gold's smile this time was the least amused of all. Good, maybe it meant Killian was finally getting under his skin. "As a matter of fact, Hamilton proved less amenable to cooperation than expected. He was sent back to London in chains."

"Good. Could be Liam actually taught him something." If he ever saw his brother again, Killian supposed, he would have to tell him that. "What about Nolan, then? Couldn't resist the chance to humiliate him for daring to challenge you, I suppose?"

"Why, Captain. You can't think that I'll stand here and blithely fill you in on _all_ my plans, now can you?" Gold raised an eyebrow. "I am, however, baffled by your apparent concern for his welfare. Please don't tell me that Killian Jones, of all men, somehow still has sympathy and affection for the Royal Navy, or anyone involved with it. In fact, I'm surprised that you can't see it. Though perhaps I shouldn't be. You did not strike me as particularly bright."

"That, then," Killian said, "would be your mistake."

"Is it?" Gold took a step. "We're very alike, you and I. You from Ireland, me from Scotland, rose high in the ranks of the service to the English crown. But we didn't start there. Born dirt-poor, mothers died early, fathers abandoned us. Had to make ourselves from the ground up, and against a system that would have liked nothing more than to see both of us bleed out in the dust. Whatever I had to do to become who I am – you hardly can throw any stones on that account, can you? You and Liam joined the Navy through deception and murder. You became Hook through more of the same. You know it, don't you? So indeed. Isn't it clear?"

"What is?"

"So as there are Flint and Silver, so too there are Hook and Gold. On the one side, an angry, disgraced ex-Royal Navy lieutenant, fleeing his old life and plotting his vengeance, taking on his new name, falling into that rage. On the other, the man whose name calls to mind what we are all after, in the end – money, largesse, treasure, riches – and who, while his methods may be the opposite, wants the same thing. Have you still not got it, Captain?"

"Are you _honestly_ trying to claim that we're on the _same bloody side?"_

"Aren't we?" Gold's eyes glittered ferally. "It's not my fault you're still too thick to see it. Haven't I done what you could only dream of? I've torn down English power and rebuilt my own in its place. The Star Chamber is no different from the pirates' republic. Unlawful by whose law? The English. Unwanted by whose interests? The English. Fought to disestablish by who? The English. We didn't like what they gave us, so we changed it. Now you're actually telling me that you want to stop what I've done? It's the same thing you've been fighting for all along, but my version of it actually _works._ You think you're the only one who's ever lost something, someone they loved? I've done this, all this, so I don't have to – "

"No," Killian said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No." He almost smiled, the spell of Gold's words broken. "You can tell yourself you're doing this for altruism, for love, for vengeance – anything you want. You're not some great champion of freedom from tyranny, or justice for the downtrodden beneath the English boot. You're building all the power you can simply because you love power, and because you love using it, and you love the sensation of playing puppetmaster with everyone's lives, of pulling everyone's strings. And why? Because you're a coward. Because no matter how much power you have, it will never be enough for you. It will never be enough to think you're free from the need, the _compulsion_ to have more. So you'll keep on burning and burning, and calling it a castle."

Gold's face went momentarily, entirely blank. Then it rearranged itself like the pieces of broken ice on a lake in winter, in jagged, unnatural edges. "You think so, dearie?" he breathed. "After everything you've done, you'll dare to stand there and call yourself a better man than me?"

"No," Killian said. "You're right about that. I won't. But I am a _different_ man than you, and that bloody matters."

"Indeed." Gold smiled, the expression still strained and sickly. "So you still expect me to think you want to save David Nolan? I don't think so. You're lying, deflecting somehow, and when I find out what, _dearie,_ I'll crush you. Or I'll just – _what,_ pirate?"

"Nothing." Killian kept grinning wildly. Only that he had heard something behind them, in the harbor, and when he turned his head just enough to look, it confirmed it. "Just that I know a few things about you, Robert. First is that, as I said, you love power for power's sake. Second is that, as I also said, you're a coward. I told you to come to this meeting alone, and I don't doubt you did – with at least two dozen of your mercenaries waiting back there, to spring out and seize me or otherwise make sure you never actually risked your skin. Or for that matter, kept your word. I counted on it, in fact. So you can console yourself, later, with how very dense I am. How I never struck you as particularly bright. I'm sure you're right."

With that, he flung himself flat on the beach, rolling fast, as the night lit up with fire and thunder. The sound was like the Devil Himself rattling the bars of hell, trying to break free and wreak mere anarchy upon the world. Killian did not care, did not care about anything except the second report of guns – one ship fired as the other reloaded, so the broadside could be nearly constant. By the dazzling muzzle flashes, he could see the spectral shapes of the _Windsor_ and the _Jolie Rouge,_ which had been sailed stealthily ashore as far as they could come without going aground, all their lanterns dark and all their hatches shut, so there was no way to spot them before they started shooting. At this close range, the effect of the combined hundred and twenty guns, more than even a first-rater of a hundred and four would carry, was absolutely devastating. The entire beachfront was blowing to pieces, yells and howls from Gold's men as more of them rushed to provide backup and were devoured by the maelstrom instead. Killian lay flat on his back in the sand for an absolutely eternal moment, stared at the stars in the brief flash he could see them before the heavens blew apart in cannonfire again, and laughed.

He barely remembered consciously getting to his feet, drawing his sword, hailing the boats that were launching, the ragtag remnants of the pirates that Jack, Anne, Madi, and England had been able to salvage from Nassau's prisons and pits and everywhere else that Rogers had kept them, awaiting their execution at an opportune moment. They stormed ashore as both the _Windsor_ and the _Jolie_ kept firing to cover them, and Killian fought up the beach one more time at their side. He could also see a fair number of men in Navy uniforms with them, who must have come from the _Windsor_ and decided that while the pirates were one sort of threat, Gold and his attempted conquest of the world was quite another. Added to Gold's imprisonment of their captain under sentence of execution, the choice must have been clear. They were loyal to Nolan the way the _Imperator's_ men had been loyal to the Jones brothers, and would follow where he led.

Killian discovered that there were tears stinging his eyes as he battled up toward the road with some faceless young man in a blue jacket, until he had to blink them away ferociously. No matter what, no matter how it had come about, it was something he had never expected, to fight alongside a Navy sailor again and feel proud that he was. When they had reached the road and cleared a swath through the gold-starred uniforms rushing to stop them, he turned and realized to his shock that the man was Lieutenant Arthur Geoffrey, from the _Halifax._ Aye, David had picked up the survivors, they would have been on the _Windsor_ , and Geoffrey had told him that Killian had tried to stop the killing of his men. Whether that mattered, whether any of it did, Killian still did not know, but he could not ever regret that he had.

The young man turned and recognized him in the exact same instant. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, haunted – as Killian had been before – by the similarity in their look and manner, their old position. Then Lieutenant Geoffrey's throat moved as he swallowed. "Sir."

"Lieutenant." Away to the east, over Geoffrey's shoulder, Killian could see a faint reddish glow. The dawn was breaking, the day coming, the world spinning on through this, toward morning. "As you were, sailor."

They stood there, looking down at the blasted beach, the world turning from black to grey, the horizon from dark to pale, with the promise of that sunrise yet to come. The _Windsor_ and the _Jolie_ were visible in the harbor as the light stole over the hills, spilled across them. One flew the Union Jack and the other the skull and crossbones on black. One was still in Navy trim, the other scuffed and banged and tarred over. But you could see the same bones beneath them, the same mother. _Sisters, aye?_ It made sense. It felt – no matter what Gold said – true.

A few minutes later, Killian and Geoffrey could see another boatload of men launching from the _Windsor,_ and went back down the beach to meet them, as they jumped overboard and hauled up onto the sand. Among these, looking tired and thin and worse for the wear, captain's uniform dirty and worn and torn with various delights of Nassau's dungeons, was another man Killian recognized, and he felt his stomach twist with unexpected hesitation. "Captain Nolan."

"Captain Jones." David Nolan regarded him intently. "I'm told I have you to thank for my freedom."

"I – told them to find you, yes." Killian glanced away, unable to quite meet his eyes, as they started up the sand. "Where are the others? Jack Rackham, Anne Bonny, Madi –?"

"We sent Madi to the _Jolie._ She should still be there, as far as I know. Edward England took temporary command as captain to oversee the attack, we supposed you wouldn't mind. But there's still no time to waste." Nolan's face was urgent. "Charles Vane. We couldn't find him. Rackham and Anne went to continue the search. And as I recall – "

"Gold said both of you were to be hanged at sunrise this morning." Killian looked at the sky, now very decidedly past sunrise, heart skipping a beat. "Bloody _hell."_

"Aye," David said, and began to run.

It was a downright mythological effort to make it through the bombarded streets, the fallen men, the rubble of stones and splintered palms and broken pieces. Killian, Geoffrey, David, and a few others kept at it, though, none of them questioning this apparent combined decision by Navy and pirates alike to rescue one of Nassau's most notorious and dangerous captains – indeed the only one, apart from Killian, that was still there or who might be left at all. They hadn't seen Gold's body among the debris, but then, they hadn't had the chance to look very carefully, and try as he might, Killian could not quite believe he had been killed that easily in the assault. Some of those men had to have made it to him, pulled him out, forced him to play his final trump card, the last remaining threat. The plaza was just ahead, with that gallows that had seen so much traffic recently, and Killian and David sped up, as they skidded around the corner and –

A ring of men in gold-starred jackets guarded the square, standing shoulder to shoulder, muskets and bayonets outstretched in a bristle of steel, as a crowd pressed in. On the gallows, a soot-smeared and insane-looking Gold stood next to a man that Killian recognized at once as Mr. Plouton, the one from whom Liam had bought their freedom from bondage at such a high price, the death of Silver's father and all his crew. All the connections snatched at Killian like cobwebs and shadows and smoke, but he still did not care. A handcuffed and battered-looking Charles Vane had the noose around his neck, the hooded executioner had his hand on the lever, the roll of drums was sounding, and in a moment – as Killian caught sight of Rackham and Anne racing down the alley from the other side – it would be too late.

In that very moment, a shout he only belatedly recognized as his own cracked the air.

"GOLD!"

Everyone turned to look at him, distracted from the imminent spectacle of Vane's execution, as Gold bared his teeth in a savage smile. "Ah," he said. "I was _so_ hoping you could make it. We'll fit another necklace for you as soon as this one is finished, don't you fear."

Killian looked around at the crowd. It was an eclectic bunch, mostly the citizens of Nassau and the stragglers from various crews, some freed prisoners, some survivors of the blast at the fort, several redcoats looking completely unsure whose orders they were supposed to be taking, and the general riffraff of looky-loos attracted to such an event. He glanced up at the window of the governor's mansion, thought he saw a curtain flutter, wondered if Eleanor was watching, if hers had been the insistence that Vane be put to death rather than bartered back to the pirates for any hope of an agreement. Killian would not be surprised if she was already signing letters with the Star Chamber cipher, if she thought this was her final triumph. But the one thing in common that the crowd had, no matter their provenance, was their silence. They were edgy and anxious and trying to get a better look, but nobody seemed about to up and declare their defiance on the spot. Killian could see Charles Vane's lip curling as he surveyed the scene, as if he was going to die a wolf before a crowd of sheep, who would then thus be scared enough to do what Gold told them. Who would agree to stop, to go away, if it just meant they did not have to care anymore.

The Star Chamber men shifted again, sensing potential trouble, as Gold and Killian stared each other down. Rackham and Anne seemed to be trying to edge unobtrusively through the crowd while Gold's attention was distracted, to get to the gallows, but just then, startling all of them, Vane spoke. "Aye," he said. "Hang me."

Gold and Plouton looked briefly startled, as they had likely never heard these as last words before, and for a moment, everything stilled. Vane continued to regard the masses with depthless contempt, and a fierce, unyielding, unbroken pride. "Watch," he rasped. "Watch this, you stupid motherfuckers. Watch me die, and think about what, if they'll do to me, they'll do to the likes of you. Cower and toady and suck their cocks if you want. It won't serve you any differently in the end. Choose the collar you want to wear. I'll choose this one, if it means you don't. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. I'd rather die free than live kneeling. Fuck you if you won't choose the same."

Killian and Vane stared at each other over the heads of the crowd for a long moment as Vane smiled faintly. _It's Killian Jones the slave I'd put my faith in. Or am I wrong?_ The one thing they had always shared, despite their other differences – and yet, the deep-grained similarity that ran in them both, the wildness in its degrees, not terribly unlike after all. Killian had been about to rush the gallows and cut Vane down, but at that, crucially, he hesitated.

Gold and Plouton glanced at each other, as if aware that to take Vane up on his offer might be slightly more subversive than they had planned for, but equally aware that to back down would be just as ruinous. The silence held the entire square in thrall, as looks were exchanged and voices whispered, a current like leaves rustling in a gathering breeze. Rackham took a step, and Vane looked directly at him and shook his head. And then, as Gold – who had not noticed this – did the same to the executioner – the lever was pulled, the trapdoor dropped, and the crack as Charles Vane's neck broke before everyone's eyes was very much like a bolt from heaven. His legs jerked into the dead man's jig for a few involuntary convulsions, then ceased.

For a few beats more, the communal stupefaction was unmovable, unbreakable, impossible. Then there was one furious hiss, and then another. A step was taken by the crowd, all together as if animated by one great ken, one beast with a hundred snapping heads, two hundred, more. The Star Chamber men lowered their muskets, preparing to blast sweet Jesus out of anyone who took another, but that did not stop them. Killian was shoulder to shoulder with David Nolan on one side and some unwashed lowlife on the other, as he could just catch sight of Rackham and Anne, pale and stunned and absolutely, transcendently furious. The standoff held for a split second more, but only that. Then someone yelled, _"VENGEANCE!"_ and it broke.

The crowd charged the gallows as one, bashing and hacking and using whatever improvised weapon came remotely to hand, Vane's body still dangling in its irons. The breeze from before had become a full-fledged gale, sweeping across the plaza like a force of nature, as everything burst apart at the seams. It did not matter what colors a man wore, or none. They rose.

Gold began to look alarmed. _Coward._ Began to stare around for the soldiers he must have paid to protect him, why they had not yet rushed in to swoop him away. _Coward._ It was David Nolan that Killian fought next to this time, as the hammer of muskets firing echoed over their heads as they ended up back to back, swords out, fighting their way to the gallows. _Coward._ Gold was actively trying to run now, but did not dare leap off the platform to all the hands that clutched and clawed furiously for him. As Killian and David battled up the stairs together, Gold yelled at the nearby redcoats, "I'm the governor! The _governor!_ Protect me, you – "

"Sorry." David swung back the blunt pommel of his sword, and struck Gold an almighty blow over the head with it. "You've just been sacked."

Killian went for Plouton, who had made it farther, but not much. The entire plaza, and the streets, had degenerated into no-holds-barred madness, and Killian was absolutely sure he saw more than one redcoat shooting the Star Chamber men instead of the pirates. Then as some of them were trying to get away, either to enact a tactical withdrawal or get a better shooting vantage, there was a second uproar from the outskirts. The next instant, Killian saw a phalanx of slaves armed with pitchforks and threshing knives and scythes and sugarcane machetes run past him, yelling various war cries at the top of their lungs in half a dozen African tongues – but among it, he could make out a name. Indeed, two. Felt it strike through him like a blow.

" _BLACK SAM!"_

" _BLACK SAM!"_

" _WHYDAH! WHYDAH! WHYDAH!"_

Killian looked to see, as he knew he would find, Lancelot waving in another surge of slaves – no, free men, there were only free men here. Him and Vane and all the other former slaves, all of them, dead or living, past or present, who had broken their chains and risen. He was so proud that he thought his heart would break, and it ached as if it already had. _God, Sam. God, I wish you could see this. God, I wish you were here._

And then – it might only have been his imagination, some fevered dream in the heat of battle, as men died, as men lived, as the sun blazed down, as it was only brightness – but Killian did not care. Heard a familiar voice whisper back to him with a smile that could be heard, _I see it. I see you. I'm here. I never left you. I never will._

* * *

The calm after the storm was almost unsettling.

It was over. It was finished. It was done. Gold and Plouton had been captured, the Star Chamber men killed, the English ships destroyed apart from the _Windsor,_ the redcoats and the Navy sailors either deserting their orders or actively following David to help the pirates. Eleanor had also been taken prisoner, the doors of the governor's mansion smashed down and the place ransacked, all of Rogers' requisitions and orders and papers piled in the square and burned in a great bonfire. The victory was too blood-soaked to be truly joyous, everyone as close to tears as to laughter, and Killian found he could not endure it. He took a bottle of rum, climbed up to a small promontory overlooking Nassau, and gazed out to the west, to the lengthening sun, and sat down, legs too shaky to hold him up. They'd done it. They had, objectively speaking, won. But there was absolutely no way to understand or predict what the future held from here, the world changed, the stars fallen. It remained a dark mirror, inscrutable and opaque.

He drank steadily. The sunset blurred through the tears in his eyes. Then to his surprise, he heard footsteps crunching up the verge, and tensed, reaching for his sword just in case – it would be a long time, if ever, until the instinct to fight was not the first one that came to him. But it was David Nolan, jacket off, cravat untied, carrying his own bottle of rum. Upon seeing Killian, he stopped. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'll find my own spot."

"No. I could. . . stand the company, mate." Killian took an unsteady swig, wiped his mouth with his tattered sleeve. "I. . ."

David paused, then nodded, sitting down next to him. The sun slipped away over the western sky, bringing soft purple twilight whispering in its wake. For the longest time, both of them remained silent. Then David said, most unexpectedly, "My father-in-law is dead."

"What?" That roused Killian from his reverie. "I – I'm sorry."

"It's all right." David's eyes flickered sidelong to him. "I told your brother, in Boston, but I don't remember if I told you. My wife, Mary Margaret, is Leopold and Eva White's daughter. Leopold White being a wealthy merchant in Charlestown, and the man who – "

"Emma was a maidservant in his house, aye." Killian's throat went slightly dry. As he was well aware what had happened to Charlestown recently, he was unpleasantly obliged to ask. "Flint and Vane, did they – ?"

"No." David shrugged. "It was before. Illness. In any event, as my wife was his only child, all his wealth, holdings, and merchant business has passed to her. I assisted Liam in Boston partly because Mary Margaret was never at ease with the way her parents treated Emma, banishing her from their house when they learned she was pregnant. But now that we are the controlling interest in one of the Carolinas' largest shipping concerns, you will of course understand if I inquire about your plans to return to piracy."

"I have none. You may trust me on that." Killian continued to stare out to sea. "I'm not sure anyone else does either. Bellamy, Vane, Flint, Blackbeard – all the powerful captains, half of them are dead, at least. Possibly all of them. The pirates' republic is finished. Nassau as it was is over. I suppose civilization won in the end after all."

"Perhaps," David said. "But you see, that was not quite the reason for my interest. Leopold's will also left us with a good deal of investable assets, and I think I see a way for Nassau to exist again. Differently, aye, but we all change. If Mary Margaret and I were to purchase its business and enterprise, to fund its rebuilding and reorganization, I think that would be sufficient to stop the English from continuing to treat it as an outlaw territory. They also owe you a debt, whether or not they will admit it, for stopping Gold and taking down his monstrous society, his destruction of their power from within. Nassau could thrive again. It's possible."

"So you – " Killian blinked. "You and your wife would become the financiers for the island, let us trade and live as free men? I doubt you'd stand for your profits to be gotten by piracy."

"As you said," David pointed out, "the pirates are gone. The men who remain want what all men want. To make a good living, to be treated fairly, to provide for their families, and to hold their heads high and to know they have been heard. On the ships and captains that I would employ, they would find those things. Your brother always inspired me to be the sort of captain that I was. I do not intend for that example, in either case, to go to waste."

Killian was briefly at a loss for words, stunned and touched and more than a little heartbroken. Wanted Liam to see this, as much as he had wanted it for Sam. "Aye," he admitted at last. "If that was truly what you were offering, you'd have plenty of takers."

"I hope so." David took another sip of his rum. "So there you have it. I'd appoint someone to remain on the island and manage our interests, of course. Do you know anyone suitable?"

"I can give you a suggestion." Killian sipped his own rum. "One, actually. A woman named Max. I think you'll find she's more than competent for the position."

If David was startled by this recommendation, he gave no sign, only nodded thoughtfully. "I'll take it under advisement," he said. "As well, Gold and Plouton will be sent for trial and imprisonment, and there will be some sort of money from the English crown in gratitude for the service. I think it is only right that it should go to you."

"I don't want their money, mate." Killian shook his head. "I don't want anything else from them. I just want Emma to bloody come back, and for us to settle down somewhere, at last. I don't think it will be Nassau. There are too many scars here for both of us."

David paused, then nodded. "If there's anything that Mary Margaret and I can do to make that easier for you, I hope you'll ask. You saved my life. Your brother is why I am the man I am. Emma was done wrongly by our family in the past. We owe it to you. I hope you can let us start to make that up."

Killian had been about to refuse again, but stopped. Looked at him for a long moment. The moon was beginning to rise over the water, huge and lucent as a fat pearl, and the wind smelled of battle and smoke and char and death, all the ghosts that would never be chased away now or in years, but who might, one day, be persuaded to lie down and take their ease. Then he raised his rum bottle, as David did the same. They clicked them together, and in the quiet of the night, they drank.

* * *

The _Rose_ returned to Nassau the next morning.

From the harbor, Emma could see the scale of the damage, the bombarded ships, the blasted fort, the seeming impossibility that anything, anywhere, could be as it had been before, that anyone had survived. It seemed almost quiet, warm, lazy, a day in deep summer where the world was at rest. No flag flew, no one was fighting. She still had Woodes Rogers prisoner, and meant to ransom him at some point, but she was uncertain as to who. Not that it mattered. It was not her main concern, or even registered beyond a vague sense of obligation. There was only one thing and one person that she cared about right now, and everything else dwindled to nothing before it.

She, Silver, Merida, and a few of the men launched the _Rose's_ boat, rowing ashore with pounding hearts, not knowing if they were walking into a trap or an abattoir. They had seen the _Windsor_ and the _Jolie_ at anchor, but the ships themselves meant nothing. The beach itself was littered with ruins and bodies, flotsam and jetsam, and Emma's heart turned over. She and Silver climbed the sand as fast as they could, Merida behind them, a pale and silent wraith of herself, but still there, still trying, somehow, to carry on. "Killian?" Emma shouted. _"Killian?"_

"Madi!" Silver looked as if he had not meant to, but could not hold it back. "Madi!"

For a moment, for one final moment, for what felt like forever: nothing.

And then, two figures appeared out of the sunlit glow, just as tired and scarred and sunburned as them – and then, as they laid eyes on them, just as stunned. Until the world held its very breath, and nothing moved – and then rushed onwards again, and broke.

Killian broke into a full-tilt sprint down the sand, as Madi followed somewhat more tentatively – but as she reached Silver, as they stretched out their hands and caught each other's fingers, a smile broke across her face to dazzle the world. For his part, he looked like a man in a dream, knowing he did not at all deserve the woman before him but realizing all at once how desperately he wanted to try. That, however, was all that Emma had time to notice before she was in Killian's arms, and his mouth was on hers, and they were whirling around and around, and she did not care about anything but the stars.

They staggered backwards into the shallows of the glittering blue water, wrapped into each other, kissing again and then again and again, faces pressed together, mouths starving, tears flowing freely. Killian put her down, but only to kiss her again, and Emma pulled him to his knees as the wavelets broke over their shoulders, as they bobbed in the outgoing tide, as the sun blazed down. As they did not let go of each other, and did not think they would again, and in the wind, among the ash and smoke and rot of the old world, there came at last, like the stolen notes of a half-heard melody, the first and fragile, broken, beautiful whisper of the new.


	42. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

 **Savannah, Province of Georgia**

 **August 1724**

The small shop was crammed to the gills, people jostling in as the overworked printer and his pockmarked apprentice could scarcely pull copies off the shelves fast enough. Coins clinked, the smell of fresh paper and ink filled the sunlit air, and as Emma moved closer, she could see the book was handsomely bound in red buckram, pages edged in gilt and the title stamped across the front. _A General History of the Robberies and Murders of the most notorious Pyrates_ , by one so-called Captain Charles Johnson, and otherwise known as the _General History of the Pyrates._ It had first been printed at Rivington's in London, and experienced such demand that its distribution had quickly been expanded to the Colonies. The civilized world was quite mad for stories of the pirates, for romance and swashbuckling adventure and the safety of their legend, now that that was what they were. "Charles Johnson's" identity was not clear, though it could have been the novelist Defoe, who had published his _Robinson Crusoe_ five years ago. Either way, however, he was clearly doing well for himself.

Emma snorted and put down her shilling on the counter, taking her copy as the apprentice passed it to her. "Quite a crowd," she remarked lightly. "I hope you have more in the back?"

"Aye, mistress, we've got more. Not sure how long they'll last, though, they're going like hotcakes." The apprentice mopped his brow. "What with the real live pirate they're hanging today, said to be the worst of them all. Captain Flint."

Emma gave him a closed-mouth, considerably colder smile, thrust the book into her pocket, and turned to go. She battled her way through the eager book-buying hordes, and emerged into the cobbled alley, hit by the thick blast of summer heat. She adjusted her hat and her sleeves – the fine lawn dress of a respectable gentlewoman, nothing at all to indicate that once she had been the cohort and consort of these scandalous sorts immortalized on the page – and set off.

She found Geneva and Sam by the waterfront, looking out over the forest of masts from the ships that rocked at anchor. At eight years old, Geneva was already tall for her age, thin as a stork, dress always dirty and black hair tumbling out of its pins, a fine dusting of freckles over her cheekbones and a lively, mischievous manner. This latter quality was one she shared, among many, with her four-year-old brother, from whom one should rarely take their eyes even for a moment, as boundless catastrophe was sure to result when you did. Samuel James Jones was too much like the rest of his family in this regard, and Emma could not help but feel that the godfather and grandfather he shared his names with, whom he had never met, would approve. Yet that was why they had come down from Boston, where they had settled quietly and anonymously and made a new life for themselves, where Henry was a year away from finishing his studies at Harvard. They had heard that Captain Flint, the feared pirate, had been captured and was set to be hanged in Savannah, and they, of course, could spare no effort in finding if it was true.

Emma's heart constricted, as it always did when she looked at her children, when she could not quite believe that they were here, and they were hers, and they were safe. After she and Killian had finally arrived in France, six months after the battle of Nassau, to reunite with Liam and Regina, they had considered not returning to the Americas at all. It felt as if there would be too many ghosts even away from Nassau. Still more stunning was the revelation that Liam and Regina had gone to Charlestown, that Liam had killed Jennings, and that they had retrieved Miranda from the chaos. And as well, that when they got to France, Miranda was alive, if not very much. Awake, and clearly aware, but injured too badly to be entirely normal ever again, physically or mentally. They had taken her to a Benedictine convent of nuns in Paris, as she needed more care than they could give her. Will had also had a bad time of things on the voyage, as he had been shot by Jennings and nearly died, but he was too stubborn to ultimately do so. Scarred and scruffy and older-looking, but still there. Still there.

When she heard this, Emma had been shocked, grateful, heartbroken, disbelieving. She and Killian had gone to the convent the very next day, searching for Miranda – but she was not there. Mrs. McGraw, the nuns told them, had left a few weeks before, more or less recovered, but permanently changed. She could have returned to London, taken up the scattered threads of an old life, but Emma knew she never would. Miranda, despite everything, must have returned to the Americas, to whatever strange and solitary and fractured remainder of her days awaited her there. And if she had done so, if she had been brave enough, if there was any chance they would meet again one day, they had to as well. Liam and Regina had chosen to stay in Paris, where they had begun to build whatever fresh start they could, find some of the peace that so sorely eluded Liam, but Emma and Killian had to return.

And so, Boston. Their life there, their home, their children, even as the past could never leave them alone altogether. Yet to wake up alongside each other every morning, to lie down in the evening, to watch the sunrise and the sunset, foul weather and fair, the snowstorms of winter and the budding trees of spring, to see the years come each in their turn, remained a gift never to be underestimated, or forgotten, or ignored. They were close enough to Cape Cod that Emma had gone to Eastham and tried to find Mariah Hallett, but that went nowhere. Perhaps the girl had left as well, sought to start again somewhere new, away from the wretched memories. So Emma and Killian merely stood on the beach by the cliffs, the very spot where Sam must have died and the _Whydah_ broken apart, and tried so very hard to learn how to say goodbye.

Now this. Now Savannah, now the chance, the slightest chance that Flint might be here somewhere. Emma had never been entirely convinced, despite everything, that he was truly dead, even after he had been left behind on Skeleton Island. Silver had said that he was dead – had said that _Captain Flint_ was dead, a choice of words which Emma thought was quite telling. She had comforted herself a thousand times with the idea that Flint had made it off the island as merely James McGraw, reborn as no one, wandered with the wind and somehow, some way, crossed paths with Miranda again. That the two of them had finally gotten the home they had so badly wanted together, somewhere near here. Anywhere would have done, though. So long as it had a view of the sea, and a strong west wind that smelled of sunlight.

Emma shook herself, striding toward her children. "There you are," she said, kissing Geneva's head. "Where are your father and your brother?"

"They went up to the square. They wanted to see if the pirate was him. Grandfather." Geneva seemed slightly hesitant, scared. "If it is – "

"We won't let them hang him," Emma said, as firmly as she could. She did not fight these days, but she would, one last time, if she had to. She and Killian had always been honest with Geneva and Sam about their family and what they had been, though the children were both well aware that it was not something to blurt out in polite company. "Promise."

"What did you buy, Mummy?" Sam tugged at her pocket. "Candy?"

"No," Emma said. "It's a book. I'll read it to you later."

Sam scrunched up his nose, looking displeased. "I want candy."

"You always want candy," Geneva said archly, as if this was not something she also keenly desired. She glanced back at the quays, where the _Rose_ was moored. The _Jolie_ had stayed in Nassau, as Killian had felt it was time to let her go at last, give her a good use. Jack and Anne sailed her these days, still as pirates, but with a commission to sell anything they took through the Nolan enterprises; the money usually ended up getting back to where it needed to go. Max managed the island with the help of Silver and Madi, who lived together as husband and wife, though neither of them wished to be married in a Christian church. Gold and Plouton were jailed indefinitely at His Majesty's pleasure, for the conspiracy and commission of high treason. As for Woodes Rogers, his had been the rather more mundane fate of debtor's prison. What had happened to Eleanor, Emma did not know. Despite herself, she still hoped she had survived.

Looking up, Emma saw Killian and Henry – now the same height – hurrying toward her through the crowd, and her heart skipped a beat. "Well?" she said urgently, when her husband and eldest son reached her. "The man they have, is it – "

"No." Killian wiped his forehead, tousling his dark hair out of his eyes. There were a few fine threads of silver in it, which made him look distinguished, in Emma's opinion. "I've no idea who it is. Some drunken sot who thought he could claim notoriety by pretending to be Flint, I imagine. I'm sorry for his fate, but there's not much we can do for it."

"Aye, then." Emma had to take a moment to fight the disappointment, the small flicker of hope that had sprung up in her. "I suppose they'll think they've killed him, then. Though in another few years, someone else might claim to be the real one."

"A regular parade of Perkin Warbecks, perhaps." Killian hefted Sam onto his hip as his son ran happily to him. "Still, though. There could be somewhere else to look. There's a plantation outside the city, run by a man who takes troublesome sorts from prominent families, those who have scandalized their highborn relations and need to be made to disappear. It's not a fate I'd think Flint would choose for himself, but. . ." He hesitated. "There was a rumor, a rumor only, I heard as to a man who might be there. Or had been, at some point. It was unclear when, or if he still was."

"Who?"

Killian turned to look at her seriously. "Thomas Hamilton."

" _What?_ He's – he's dead. Long ago."

"So we all thought," Killian said. "So Flint thought. I have no notion if he even knows, if he would be anywhere remotely in a position to hear of it, or do anything with it. But if he had, somehow, if he did. . . well. We could at least look, while we're here."

"Thomas Hamilton?" Geneva piped in. "Who's that?"

"He was your grandmother's first husband," Emma said, feeling a faint pang. "Both she and Grandfather loved him very much, as well as each other. It was his loss that made them flee London, and come to Nassau. They were betrayed, and they never forgot it."

Geneva absorbed that with a solemn nod. Then she looked up hopefully at Henry, as she and Sam had quickly discovered that he could be leveraged for all sorts of things that their parents might say no to. "Can Henry take us to get some candy?"

"Oh, all right." Emma fished in her purse for some more money as Killian put Sam down, and all three of the children – well, Henry wasn't, he was a young man, but still – gamboled off, Henry dutifully supervising his rambunctious younger siblings. Emma and Killian stood watching them, hearts soft and full, their fingers interlocking. She glanced up at him. "We've been lucky, haven't we? So lucky."

"Aye, love." Killian leaned over to kiss her temple. "Well, I'm going to go see if there's anyone else I can shake down for information. Wait here in the shade for the lads and Geneva, you look hot."

"All right." Emma kissed him again before he headed off, then turned to watch the docks brimming with industry. But among them all, it was one figure that caught her attention. A woman, standing by herself a little way off. Wearing a bonnet and leaning on a cane, lost in her own world. Skirts whipping around her legs. Until Emma blinked, blinked hard, and was sure she was imagining it, but there seemed something just that bit. . .

. . . familiar.

No. It had been too long, almost a decade, and it was only wishful thinking, conjured by love and loss and loneliness, in thinking, in holding on all these years, to the ghost of the idea that there was still even a chance. But Emma could not stop herself from taking a step, and then another, and then almost starting to run. Down the docks, dodging through longshoremen, as if her feet had wings. Until she almost cried out, but – in case she was mistaken – she didn't.

She slowed, a few yards away. The woman still had not moved, but Emma felt her heart stop. Believed, all at once, that the answer to their question was here, and they could stop looking. That James McGraw, Thomas Hamilton, and the woman they had both married had somehow found their way home together, at last. To each other, to wholeness, to their three parts. To that little house by the sea, and a life away from pain and darkness. In whatever pieces remained. However few. However many.

Emma Swan Jones did not move for a moment more. Then she said, barely above a whisper, heart cracking, overflowing, unbelieving, _"Miranda?"_

Like a princess roused with a kiss in a fairy tale, but many years later grown into a mature and stately queen, the woman turned.

Her hair was nearly silver, her eyes well lined, her face thin, her body far more fragile, and yet there was no doubt at all. As they stared at each other, as all the time and all the loss and all the pain fell away, as the horizon was no longer dark, but brighter than the sun and stars and the very world itself. As Miranda – Hamilton, Barlow, McGraw, Flint, _mother –_ met her eyes, and stared, and stared, and pressed a hand to her mouth. Until it was. It was then. It was so.

"Emma," she said, faint with shock, soft with love. The name was a prayer and a wish and a song all at once, the most beautiful sound in all of eternity. "It has been so very long."

 **THE END**


End file.
